


Walking Through the Fire

by SleepyLeaf



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Angst, Anxiety Attacks, Blood and Injury, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Post Chorus Trilogy, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn, Trust Issues, torture reference
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-19
Updated: 2019-01-04
Packaged: 2019-09-22 19:03:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 21,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17065361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SleepyLeaf/pseuds/SleepyLeaf
Summary: After a harrowing fight on the Staff of Charon, the reds and blues are caught between a civilian and military legal conflict. Washington isn't good at living outside of a war zone, and if he's going to work again he has to pass his psych evaluation. Tucker can help Wash adjust to a life of peace, but he can't stop the feeling that something awful is hanging over their heads.





	1. Deep Breath

**Author's Note:**

> I love these cuties with all my heart. I don't know what else to say, except for please read and comment if you like it!

“Wash! Get the _fuck_ up!” Tucker shouted into his radio. An explosion near the pelican had launched the freelancer twenty feet in the air. Limply, he bounced hard on the concrete floor and slid dangerously close to the gaping edge of the hangar. Tucker shouted again into his radio, eyeing the bloody skid marks on the ground.

By the time the freelancers docked to the _Staff of Charon_ , the fight was already a bloodbath. The Charon soldiers assigned to eliminate the reds and blues were not battle-hardened or experienced, yet the number of guns on the ship was overwhelming, even with the AI— _oh my god, shut up, I can’t take anymore_ —and Tucker kept leaning on the glass in the control room high above the fray. _Every thought is a fucking scissors in my brain._ He felt short of breath and dangerously warm _. If you would stop—stop screaming—I could…_ Tucker fumbled against the glass and removed the Meta’s helmet. _I just need a breather, just need a break, I just need you to stop screaming._ Tucker gasped for air and steadied himself with helmet in hand.

The pelican came under intense fire as soon as it landed in the hangar. Tucker, along with Caboose, Donut, and Doc, were searching frantically for something in the controls, anything, that they could use to help their extraction. The reds were on the upper level nearby, locked in a firefight to clear a path to the pelican. Even with the mounted machine guns, these fuckers _just kept coming_.

The pilot had the engines running under protection of the freelancers. Grey and blue suits bashed into the soldiers who rushed the smaller ship. What initially looked like quick work against one or two squadrons deteriorated into a scrambling effort to stay the onslaught of enemy combatants. Carolina blasted through three Charon soldiers at a time while Washington’s assault rifle perforated enemies. By the time he saw the first incoming rocket missile, it was too late to evade. Many missiles later, the door of the pelican was _gone_ , and Washington was thrown by the blast.

“I can’t leave this position or the Pelican is good as lost,” Carolina radioed to the crew. “Someone better get down here and HELP US!”

“We’re working on it!” Simmons’ shrill voice called out. “Get those turrets, Grif!” Tucker could hear them hustling out there, coordinating with Carolina as best they could manage.

“Beep Bop Boop!” Caboose blurted suddenly.

“Wait, what are you doing?” Donut shouted frantically at Caboose, who was already pressing buttons on the control panel. Doors opened and closed rapidly, lights flickered, and one airlock opened for a moment and swallowed several Charon soldiers into space. “You’re gonna accidentally kill our guys!”

“No, I’m pretty sure this is helping,” Caboose said.

“Hey! The exits are sealed!” Doc called over. “No more soldiers can get in! Do you think _maybe_ we should try to get on the pelican now?”

“You are not helping,” Tucker bit back at Doc.

Doc sighed flatly. “I know.”

“Dude fuck this, Wash isn’t moving. Donut, cover me, I’m going down.” Tucker shoved the helmet on his head and bolted down the scaffolding steps. Donut was close behind. Whatever one-liner Donut had up his sleeve was lost to the cacophonous sound of gunfire.

Tucker ran under cover as best he could. He didn’t know for sure Donut was actually supporting him until two soldiers fell dead in his path and a grenade launched into a small formation who’d been giving Carolina hell from behind a flipped tank. Tucker weaved and slashed his sword into anyone who got close enough. The suit was sweltering hot. _I know you’re tired._ Sweat dripped into Tucker’s eyes. _Stop screaming, stop screaming, stop.._. Carolina was barely holding her position. Charon soldiers moved to swarm Grif and Simmons while Sarge held the stairwell with his shotgun.

“Tucker! Get over here! Tell those idiots to start running for the ship!” Carolina ordered over the radio.

“Guys, stay close together and start making it towards the Pelican. We’re not gonna last much longer out here,” Tucker radioed back. He sprinted forward again, but not towards Carolina. “I’ve got to check on Wash.”

“TUCKER!” Carolina shouted. “WE WON’T SAVE _ANYONE_ IF WE DON’T EVACUATE SOON.”

“I know, I know, I’m just making sure—” a blast threw Tucker into a metal support beam. The crack of his helmet rattled his organs and bones at a frequency that reverberated on a cellular level. His radio became staticky. _You’re leaning too much on me._ Tucker wheezed as he crumpled to the ground. _Shut up, shut up, shut up, stop leaning on me, just shut up.._. Taking cover behind the beam, Tucker took a few breaths to steady himself and pushed towards Washington.

The bloodied freelancer had gathered himself into a crouched position but was unsteady. “Oh thank God,” Tucker said, running to his side with haste. Tucker was sure he had a concussion by the way the ground seemed to shift beneath him like ocean waves.

“Wash, get up, we have to get to the ship,” Tucker said, grabbing the freelancer from the side as best he could.

“T-Tuckhh,” Wash garbled from in his helmet. He motioned vaguely to the release with a twitching hand. Tucker pulled the helmet from his friend’s armor, which gave way with a _hiss_ and a _splat_.

                _Splat._

Tucker’s heart stopped in horror when blood poured over Wash’s torso from inside the helmet, and when the helmet cleared his head Wash coughed and gasped for air.

“T-thanks,” he wheezed. Blood stained his teeth, matted his hair, and poured from a gash in the side of his head. “But, I’m not sure I can… I-I think I’m done.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Tucker ordered. “Don’t say that shit, we just have to get you to the pelican.”

“No, I… I can’t fight anymore.” Wash sputtered and nearly slipped from Tucker’s hold. “We can’t get in without a fight.” Washington could taste blood and fear in his mouth, but he knew it was the truth. Tucker looked desperately for help from his teammates, but they were all _seriously_ preoccupied. Carolina was fatigued, and the first Charon soldiers began to board their pelican.

“Oh shit.” Tucker said, still holding Wash close to keep him as vertical as possible. Wash’s bloodstained head lolled a little with Tucker’s every move. “Oh, shit,” Tucker said again. “It’s over.” The screaming in Tucker’s helmet buzzed at a deafening volume. Wash clasped a shaking hand around Tucker and latched on tight.

They were dead men.

Suddenly, the power cut out. The ship’s electronics sighed in relief as total blackness took them over. A loud voice boomed over the battle, cutting through the noise with a boggling volume.

“THIS IS THE UNSC OF THE PLUTONIAN PEACEMAKERS DIVISION. LAY DOWN YOUR WEAPONS AND SURRENDER IMMEDIATELY. FAILURE TO COMPLY WILL RESULT WITH TOTAL ANNIHILATION OF THE _STAFF OF CHARON_.”

Tucker heard a small gasp from the damaged freelancer beside him. It almost sounded like a laugh. Or a cough. Maybe he was just trying to clear the blood from his airway. Tucker noticed the grip on his shoulder wasn’t any less.

It wasn’t instant, but within a few minutes the fighting was over. Multiple crafts filled with UNSC peacemakers had already docked and were beginning to decompress the situation. Who even fucking knew where the CEO had run off to in all this.

“Medic! Dude! We need a medic over here, like right now!” Tucker shouted to the nearest peacemakers. Within moments, Wash was carried off on a stretcher marked “PRIORITY”. Next thing Tucker knew, Donut was forcefully pulling the Meta helmet from his head.

 

* * *

 

“Word is the new colonies on Chorus are doing well,” Carolina said somewhat lazily over a cup of coffee. It had been over a week since the crew had been taken in by the UNSC Plutonian Division. The ship itself was an old piece of junk. The population on board was mostly science crews, and while there were a handful of soldiers stationed at the base, it really was the middle of nowhere.

But it was quiet.

Everyone was out of the infirmary by now, except for Wash, who was still intubated in the ICU. Whenever Tucker took the time to assess his friends, he couldn’t help but think they looked like the sorriest bunch of invalids in the galaxy. Simmons was hobbling around on crutches, his leg broken in four places. Grif followed him around to help hold stuff, but it wasn’t incredibly effective with Grif’s fractured collarbone. Between the two of them standing there was one good arm, and it was usually just feeding Grif. Sometimes, Tucker would catch him feeding Simmons, too, when Simmons was busy using his arms to walk. That always made Tucker smile.

 Sarge was on a strict schedule to get bandage changes every couple hours—Tucker didn’t know the details but by the time the old dude was out of his armor, he moved like a creaking, twisted oak tree: slow, deliberate, painful. Caboose and Doc were scraped up pretty bad from a vehicle collision en route to the pelican (Doc had been driving).

 Donut recently came out of back surgery where they fused some vertebrae in his back. The story he told was that he’d “had too much fun” for his skeleton to handle it… but Tucker was pretty sure he had splintered his spine when he took a lightshield bash unexpectedly from behind. And Carolina had a fucking _eye patch._ She definitely looked like a badass, but apparently, she got tossed around pretty hard down in the heat of things. Tucker’s concussion had been bad enough that he was _still_ getting dizzy spells.

And Washington… they decided it was better to induce a coma while they waiting for his brain to stop swelling. Last Tucker heard, they were going to open up his skull if the pressure didn’t start decreasing. Just thinking about it caused a dizzying crack of pain across Tucker’s brow—a migraine flair that threatened to take him to the ground in an instant.

Tucker wandered away from their shared living quarters without a word to the privacy of his room unit. Once he was behind the heavy sliding door, he shuffled to his bed and closed his eyes while his head _throbbed_. The nurse would be by with more pills soon, he prayed. It hurt to close his eyes. It hurt to open his eyes. It hurt to breath. It hurt to think. His head was pounding with every beat of his heart. He could hear his heartbeat, too, a quick staccato with uneven pauses and jolts. He didn’t think that was right, but he was sure the doc would let him know if something was up.

His new quarters were cramped but comfortable, all things considered. There were outdated appliances in his kitchenette and a bathroom with a full-sized tub. An ugly couch nestled against beige walls and beige carpeting, situated in between the doors that led to separate bedrooms.

With his head buried into his mattress, he turned away from his doorway and the ugly couch to examine his armor in the corner. The new get-up was a sweet upgrade… for a minute, anyway. _It was… kind of fucked up, actually._ Tucker wasn’t sure if he understood what had happened in his head yet, when Epsilon deconstructed to power the equipment… After Epsilon split off, Tucker remembered feeling like he was absorbing more information at one time than he could handle. He was acutely aware of… everything. And yet, paradoxically, Tucker couldn’t remember many details about any time fighting in the suit.

He remembered that he could smell him. Wash. And all his blood, and his fear. For a moment, Tucker thought back, it was like he could feel his brain vibrating at such a high frequency he could feel everything everyone else was feeling, too. He felt Carolina’s fury, and Doc’s quiet paranoia, and Simmons’ nihilistic joy.

He had to be honest with himself, he… didn’t expect that last one.

But when he was next to Wash, after the helmet came off and the blood painted watercolor sunsets on his armor, he could feel a deep, earthshaking emptiness. Defeat was a stillness so eerie, the whole world could come crashing down without a sound. If he had pressed his ear to the ground of that velvety quiet, he might have heard that deafening apathy, that great sound of nothingness. _It says God is dead and you’re dying alone_.

Tucker gasped as he snapped back to reality. For a moment it felt like he had left his body entirely. His heart was fluttering again, but it didn’t last long this time. He checked the time and—shit, did he fall asleep? The clock read 4:34 A.M. Tucker didn’t remember dozing off, but he rubbed his eyes and sat up anyway. He needed to go see Washington. He’d already been away too long, so he put himself together for the day and stalked off to the infirmary.

“What’s it been, Captain, a whole 14 hours? Can’t stand stayin’ away from me?” the resident doctor teased in her thick accent. “Looks like you finally got some sleep. Good on ya.”

“Aw, you know I’ll always keep coming back for you, Doc Padwell,” Tucker said with a hint of playfulness in his voice, even if he was still tired. “Any news on our favorite customer?” Tucker leaned over the nurse’s station. Their ICU was small. They had five beds here, and ten beds in the general admission. The tech looked a bit outdated, but everything seemed to run smoothly. This ship kind of felt like the dive bar of ships in general.

                The doctor flipped through three or four files on her fluorescent blue software. “Hm… Looks like tests have determined brain swelling has reduced to safe levels, and… they took ‘im off intubation late last evening. The healing units are runnin’ on full power now, so we’ve cut back the sedatives.”

                “Is there any indication of… lasting effects?” Tucker asked.

                “Naught so far, but we’re not quite out the woods yet,” Doc Padwell said. “We’ll get ‘em stable enough for transport, but he’s going’ to need a lot of follow-up work once you all board the _Callisto Seven_.”

                “Wait, the what?” Tucker asked. “When are we boarding a new ship?”

                “Oh, I’m sure not right away… couple weeks maybe? But you know us docs, we’re always buggin’ each other to get our hands on the most interesting patients. _Callisto_ Seven is technically a trade ship, but from what I hear it’s a huge city. Loads of cargo and the people that’s with ‘em, yeah. They’re making rounds here to drop off and headin’ back. But the military rents a large chunk of the cargo space, so it’s like a base town, you know?”

                “Why are we going on a civilian-owned ship?” Tucker asked.

                Doc Padwell tutted. “Sorry mate, not clear on the details. But I _will_ tell you, they have an _excellent_ psychiatrist facility on that ship. Lots of fancypants doctors trying to get their foot in the door there. It makes stops at all the major hospital satellites between here and the asteroid belt. Quite a chummy group of people I hear…” she trailed off.

                “Is that why? They want to pick our brains?” Tucker said incredulously. “What if I don’t want to—”

                “Ah-ah-ah!” She interrupted. “ _That_ is a losing battle you’ll have to take up with them.” She then muttered quietly while maintaining direct eye contact with Tucker and began annunciating to a peculiar degree. “ _They want to see what is ticking inside you_. _What would anyone want with that_ , I _wonder?”_

She paused for a moment before turning back to her charts.  “Ah well, good riddance to ‘em…”

                Soon Doc Padwell was simply grumbling to herself, about whatever professional grudge Tucker didn’t have a clue. But he needed to see Wash. He thanked the doctor for her time and padded softly around the corner to Wash’s room. It was still early enough that no one else had stopped to visit yet, and he was grateful for a moment of peace with his friend.

                _Yes. Peace and quiet. That’s all we really need_.

                Tucker gently pushed the door open and slid into the dark room. The cables, monitors, and hologram screens made this place feel cramped, but there was room for Tucker to sit down in a chair near the bed. In the soft glow of the screens he could see Wash’s chest rising and falling in slow, rhythmic beats. Tucker felt some relief to see him breathing on his own again. He looked closer, checking to see if there were any remnants of the medical tubes. _Just the IV now_ , he thought. That was good, too.

                Tucker propped one elbow on the side guard and lay his head onto his arm. He took his time gazing at Wash, worried and anxious about all sorts of things. A nagging voice wouldn’t leave him alone, either.

_You thought you missed you chance before. Maybe you should tell him._

                Tucker shook his head as if to physically cast the thought from his skull. _Right. Like Wash needs some bullshit drama in his life_. _Nah._ Tucker settled his chin on his forearm and let his eyes cast down again. He wasn’t doing anything, he was just… admiring.

                Wash was in an ugly blue hospital gown and about five hundred blankets, but it didn’t matter. He looked brilliant. Especially like this, asleep.

 _Injured_.

                Yeah, injured, and bandages around his head. But with his eyes closed, you could see his blonde, feathery lashes. And his brows rested without a scowl for once. His beard was starting to grow out after eight days of neglect. Tucker smiled at how his hair faded from sunshine-yellow at the tippy top of his head to the handsome ashy brown in his temples. And now Tucker could see in Wash’s stubble that it was a lovely dirty-blonde the rest of the way. Except, he noticed, for the grays. There was definitely some of those, too. Tucker’s eyes rested on his lips, parted slightly with his steady breathing. He always got lost at this part, on that perfect cupid’s bow and he’s wanted for so long just to—

                Tucker closes his eyes and bites his lip. No, that’s not what he’s here for today. _Not everything is about me_. _I need to be here for him._ But Tucker found it increasingly difficult over time to stop. To stop thinking, to stop imagining, and the next thing he knows his eyes are trailing down Wash’s neck and glimpsing a single freckled shoulder where the hospital gown slouched forward. He wanted to know where all Wash’s sensitive spots were. He wanted his tongue on those collarbones. He wanted Wash on his—

                _Stop_. Tucker snapped out of it and rubbed his eyes. It’d been a long time since he’d had sex. Maybe almost a year now, once he thought about it. He had a nice rendezvous with the volleyball girl once or twice on Chorus. That stopped right about as soon as he couldn’t stop calling her “Volleyball Girl” instead of “Jaqueline” or whatever her name was. But Tucker just wasn’t interested in flings anymore. He’d had plenty of good pussy in his life, and some damn good dick too. But, hell, what’s the point in sleeping with someone if you’re not going to… well, _get to know them_ , so to speak. After enough spontaneous sexual encounters, Tucker knew that pleasing someone _once_ was easy. But getting to know someone’s favorite spots, reading their face as he touches them, watching their fists catch in the sheets as he dips his tongue along the underside of Wash’s—

                He shuttered and steered his mind away, again.

 Tucker yearned for familiarity, and security, and quiet, and all those good delicious things and something about Washington just made very ounce of him scream that this was the one, this one was _right_ for him. Tucker never imagined he’d want to settle down, and if he did, he never thought it’d be with a dude. It turns out it was the women who were the phase this whole time! Tucker chuckled inwardly at himself.

                He knew he should be heading out soon. He needed to eat and do physical therapy for his recovery and he needed a shower. He was thinking about doing something new with his locs, since it was about time for maintenance anyways.

                _Would you like me with something different?_ He wondered. God damn, he was such a girl sometimes. Fucking _desperate_ for the approval of a man who was probably _hella_ straight and sexually repressed anyhow. Tucker buried his face into the crook of his elbow, hunched into the side of the bed while he flitted away his silly thoughts before convincing himself to stand up.

                But then the whole room faded into the background when he felt something warm touch his hand. He looked up to see Wash, lips parted and eyes heavy, watching Tucker with a look he couldn’t quite pin down.

                The warmth was from Wash’s fingertips. They moved slowly, almost as if on their own accord, and slowly wound around Tucker’s hand. Without missing a beat, Tucker gave Wash’s hand a gentle squeeze. They held each other’s gaze for what seemed like forever, and Tucker could spend his whole life drowning in those icy, steel gray eyes.

                Tucker knew he should say something, but he couldn’t find the words. He just kept remembering the blood, over and over again, and the way Wash clung to him like he was so close to death.           

                “Hey,” Tucker said. _Anticlimactic, and lame_. He kicked himself. Where did all his good one-liners go when he needed them most?

                “Hey,” Wash rasped as best he could. As soon as he did, his brows furrowed in a wince.

                “I-I should go get someone,” Tucker said, but made no effort to move. He couldn’t move, not with Wash staring at him like that.

                “How long…?” Wash almost hissed now. He coughed to the side and cleared his throat some, although much of what he felt must have been swelling from the vent.

“How long was I out?” Wash tried again. Better. Still hoarse, but better.

                “Eight days,” Tucker told him.

                Wash’s eyes fluttered shut for a moment. He looked for a moment like he was going to fall right back asleep. Tucker understood. Sedatives will do that to you. But just as soon as Tucker tried to release his hand, Wash’s grip tightened urgently.

                “Wash?” Tucker asked quietly. “Hey, you’re okay now.”

                “Tucker…” Wash murmured. Tucker couldn’t help but smile.

                “Fighting the sedatives, huh?” Tucker said softly, leaning closer to Wash. Wash’s eyes were fluttering every few moments, but every time he fought back the sleep, a hazy fatigue was ready to envelop him in a cocoon immediately after.

                “Did we make it out? Did we all…?” Wash managed, his eyes still closed.

                “Yeah. You were amazing, and we all made it out safe. We’re off of  _Staff of Charon_ , off of Chorus, and we’re all just… resting,” Tucker said warmly. “We’re gonna heal up before anything else happens. All of us.”

                Wash smiled and let out a tired, ugly chuckle. Tucker loved it and wanted to hear it more. “Where are we?” Washington pressed. He was trying so hard to sound like a coherent individual again.

                “Some backwoods army junker that sort of hangs out near Pluto. I’m pretty sure this is where the army sends all their nerds,” Tucker told him.

                “Ah…” Wash muttered. “Finally, I’ll be able to beat out the… the competition.”

                _The competition?_ Tucker thought. _Gonna go beat up a bunch of science dorks? Maybe join the mathletes? Start a science fair project?_ But all of his jokes died on his lips when he felt Wash’s grip begin to relax as he surrendered to a heavy sleep once again. Tucker nestled Wash’s hand back into the blankets and left to update the Doctor. It felt _so good_ to see him again.

Tucker sighed and brushed his locs away from his face, taking a moment in the doorway to just bury his face in his hands. He was grinning, and he couldn’t stop.

                It felt _so good_ to see him again.

               

* * *

 

                “I hate to say it, but I’ve never been so bored in my life,” Grif sighed. He and Simmons lounged on one of the couches in the living quarters. The news was on TV, upon Simmons’ request.

                “Deal with it. I want to know what they’re saying about Charon Industries,” Simmons said. “Hey, hand me a pop-tart.”

                Grif rummaged through their pile of snacks on the coffee table. “Want me to feed it to you too?” he said with a smile.

                Simmons turned to look at Grif, unphased. Skin and metal seamlessly interchanged on the left side of his face. A metal cheekbone eased down into the soft pale skin of his jawline, and mussed dark auburn hair concealing what it could. Grif was used to seeing Simmons out of uniform on base, but it was different here. There was no sense of urgency, nothing to do. It was Grif’s paradise, and Simmons’ hell.

                “ _Why_ would I want you to feed it to me?” Simmons dead-panned.

                “I dunno. You’re all injured and stuff over there.” Grif smirked and handed the snack to Simmons before snuggling down into his blanket. “Just trying to help.”

                “I have _two_ working arms. You have _one_ working arm. How would that be efficient?” Simmons’ eyes squinted whenever he thought Grif was being particularly dumb. Grif thought that shit was cute.

                “Hey guys, I see you didn’t waste any time getting started on your vacation,” Carolina’s voice came from behind them. She had returned from multiple meetings in the morning with officers on board.

“Uh, it’s been like two weeks,” Grif said with a smile. “If they don’t want me to work then I guess they want me to snack.”

Carolina ignored him. “Oh, you got the news on? Good, turn it up.”

                Simmons and Grif both waited for each other to grab the remote between them.

                “You know, you have _two_ working arms and I only have _one_ working arm, so I’m just saying—” Grif started.

                “Oh my god,” Simmons muttered in exasperation and turned up the volume.

                _“Leaders of Charon Industries have been detained for further questioning. Right now, military and government prosecutors are fighting for jurisdiction over the case. It is possible that they will be tried in two separate courts, but more likely than not the military will fight to try the whole case because of the number of classified elements involved in the evidence,”_ one expert said.

 _“And what are the implications of that?”_ the interviewer asked.

                _“Well, it means a lot less information will be public. The military prosecutors are currently working to repress as many details as they can, citing confidentiality…”_

                “Ah, they’re useless,” Carolina muttered. “Is there still coffee?”

                “Yeah, help yourself,” Simmons said.

Each suite had a kitchenette, two bedrooms, and a bathroom. The full kitchen in the living quarters was divided by a breakfast bar on the left side with couches and the TV on the right. Three separate hallways lead to the bedroom suites, two on the right and one on the left. It wasn’t extraordinarily spacious, but it was surprisingly comfortable. Carolina poured herself a cup and propped up at the breakfast bar.

“Hey Carolina?” Grif asked. “Have you heard anything about when we’re leaving this ship? Like, are we _done_ working for the military now?”

“The Brigadier-General told me they didn’t have the proper materials on board to really clear us for duty or discharge, so we’re going to transfer over to a larger unit next week. Before they can do anything, they need physical and psych evals. We will either get cleared for duty or discharged from there,” she shrugged. “But I don’t think we’ll be going anywhere until this legal battle settles down. I think the military is worried about liability, and they probably need to make sure _we_ are not a liability.”

“Do I get a say on if I’m discharged?” Grif asked.

“Please. They’re gonna take one look at your fat ass and give you dishonorable,” Simmons said.

“I mean, I think by now I’d take it,” Grif said.

                The main door dinged as it slid open, revealing Tucker with a sack full of groceries. “Hey dudes. You ever hear of _plantains_? Because I am excited to try some.”

                “Everyone’s heard of plantains,” Simmons said.

                “What’s a plantain? Is it like a vegetable?” Grif asked.

                “Aren’t those just… small bananas?” said Carolina

                “Psh. I guess we’ll find out! I don’t fuckin’ know. But with an actual food market available now I’m gonna eat all sorts of crap. I got big plans,” Tucker grinned. He started putting his snacks away.

                “Waaaaay ahead of ya,” Grif said, turning the TV volume down and the channel to something more interesting, like cartoons.

                “Seriously,” Simmons said with a mouth full of poptart.

                “Carolina, how’s your eye? You gonna rock the pirate look from now on? Not that it isn’t hot. I can think of some booty you could grab—bow chicka bowwow” Tucker said.

                Carolina ignored his quips. She was used to them by now. Wash had been right; these guys were total idiots… but they were good people. “The eye is healing all right, but it won’t be back to full health for a few months at least. They’re going to see how much it heals on its own, and if I get redeployed, they’re talking cybernetic enhancements.”

                “What? Cybernetic enhancements??” Simmons exclaimed. “They should totally fix me up! I’m like, mostly cybernetic at this point anyway. Maybe I could get some upgrades!”

                “Ooh, they could give you a laser eye! Both of you!” Grif said.

                “Dude fuck that. I want super strength. And like, the ability to shoot bullets directly out of my hand. That’d be badass.” Simmons said. He put his left hand right in Grif’s face and made _pew pew_ sound effects for dramatic effect.

                “Yeah, maybe you could go on _Pimp my Ride_ ,” Grif snorted.

                Tucker snorted from the kitchen. “Dude, that show hasn’t been relevant in years. Like, even by our fucked-up timeline standards.” He was already halfway into a plantain.

                “Ah, whatever. I guess we’re old now,” Grif said.

                “I would be interested in scoping abilities with an eye, if it came to that,” Carolina said. “How convenient would that be? Every grenade, every firearm—incredible accuracy and no scope needed.”

                “You could spy on people, too,” Tucker said. Carolina looked at him with a blank stare, her hands cupped around her coffee.

                “You know, that’s kind of creepy,” she said.

                “No, I meant for like, military shit. But I mean, you could probably be the best peeping tom of all time.” Tucker shrugged and seemed to look contemplatively down at the plantain.

                “… Is that any good?” Carolina asked.

A moment of silence passed between them and Tucker dropped the plantain in the garbage. “Nope.”

“Yo dude you want a pop-tart? These things are like crack,” Grif asked.

“Don’t give away our crack, dude!” Simmons stage-whispered.

Suddenly the front door beeped again and two nurses came in. “Hey guys!” the nurse announced. “We’re here to drop off a package for you. Oh, and meds.” The second nurse began distributing paper bags to everyone in the quarters and left a few on the breakfast bar for the others, who were all off on their initial medical evaluations this morning.

“Uh… what are these for?” Simmons asked, peeking into the bag.

“A standard grab-bag of some light anti-anxieties, some sleep aids, oh—and the big pink one is actually a bioscanner camera, which will live-transmit your stats to our lab so we can make comprehensive health plans for you all. Make sure you take it with food,” the second nurse explained.

“Dude is there Xanax in there?” Grif asked Simmons in a hushed voice.  
                “Shut up you idiot,” Simmons responded.

The nurse outside ushered in a groggy Washington in standard issue sweats.

All eyes were on him, especially Tucker’s. In the light of their living quarters he could see just how pallid Wash looked, which only emphasized his forever-tired eyes. The right side of his head was shaved where Tucker could see the _staples over the swollen seams in his skull_ where the surgical team had kept his brain from swelling and bleeding out into his body. He was still a pile of bandages elsewhere, and he moved stiffly to account for them.

Yet, Wash was walking on his own, and in his arms were all the materials the infirmary left him. “Thanks... I call if anything comes up,” he said. The nurses excused themselves and left Wash standing in the living room. Tucker wanted nothing more than to cater to his every need right that second; an overprotective flare blossomed in his chest. But Wash already sounded so tired, and Tucker thought it better he not get right up in his space yet.

“Wash! Welcome back!” Simmons exclaimed.

“Want a poptart?” Grif offered.

“Hey guys,” Wash said with a smile. “No, thanks, I don’t… I don’t know what that is.”

“Who hasn’t heard of poptarts?” Grif asked. Simmons shrugged.

“What about a plantain?” Tucker offered. Wash’s brows knit together in slight confusion.

“Is that all you guys have been doing? Eating?” Wash asked wearily.

“Mostly,” Carolina said, standing up. “You want me to help you get settled?”

“Yeah, thanks.” Wash and Carolina shuffled down one of the hallways, and Carolina gave him the rundown of the place.

Tucker could have punched himself. _What about a plantain?_ Is he fucking stupid?? It was definitely a good thing Tucker didn’t volunteer to help; he would have probably been an even bigger headache for the freelancer. If Tucker could just keep… acting normal… like how things were when they were on Chorus. Even that isn’t a great comparison, though, and now they were all unemployed and on rest.

This was a pretty weird time for all of them. There was nothing to do—no drills, no supply runs, no missions, no war. It was… really fucking boring. They were supposed to be healing but, in reality, that just meant more time to sit around with their own thoughts.

While it was nice to not have to worry about dying every day, it was also kind of… well, Tucker wouldn’t say it was a nice _distraction_ , but it certainly kept all the other stuff safely packed away. He opened his bag of pharmaceutical goodies and wondered if he would need any of them. Otherwise, he thought Grif had a great idea about the Xanax.

 

* * *

 

Carolina hauled Washington’s bag of personal items onto his bed for him. Wash was on a weight restriction for the next couple days, and for once in his life he was going to adhere to that. Mostly because Carolina wasn’t having it any other way.

“Who’s got the other room?” Wash asked. “This place is already a mess.”

“Oh, uh, I think that’s Tucker’s stuff. I don’t think there are any more single rooms open…” Carolina mused. The place wasn’t really a mess, per se, but various clothing items—sweatshirts and socks mostly—had been abandoned in the kitchenette and the couch, and the bathroom had various grooming products strewn about. But Wash’s bedroom had been untouched.

“You want help unpacking from here?” Carolina asked.

“No, no, I’m fine, thanks,” Wash said. “I think I need a shower after all those days in the infirmary.”

“Be careful of this while you’re in there,” Carolina said softly, her fingers grazing the swollen seams on the side of Wash’s head. “It looks like its well on its way to healing, but it could still get infected if you fuss with it too much.”

Wash smiled. “Yeah, I know Carolina. This isn’t my first time going down hard.” It was heartwarming to see Carolina’s concern, but of all the people in the world she should understand the most.

Carolina sighed. “I hate to say it, but you really owe Tucker. I told him to leave you, when you…” she faltered. “I thought our best bet for getting out of there was clearing the ship. If I had known you were bleeding like that in your helmet…”

“It’s fine,” Wash said quickly. “You made the right call, you didn’t have all the information… Tucker acted recklessly. It just… happened to work out this time.”

They shared a brief silence as neither one of them wanted to be the first to breach the topic. Yet, they felt they needed to. Carolina started. “Maine’s armor…” But the rest of her thought never followed.

Wash took in a sharp breath. “Maine’s armor.” They locked eyes, seeking validation in each other over whatever triggered feelings were brewing within them. “It was their best chance for survival.”

“The guys said Epsilon ran the equipment before he fractured,” Carolina said softly. “I think he fragmented while Tucker was _in there_.”

Washington’s grey eyes widened in surprise. “Epsilon… fractured? On Tucker?” Carolina nodded. “Is he—how did…?” Wash could feel his heartrate quickening against his will, the panic threatening to bubble up from his chest. “I knew Epsilon was gone, but I didn’t realize he _fragmented_.”

“Tucker says he’s fine. I haven’t breached the topic with him more than once, but I wanted you to know… in case something happens with him. Just… be on your toes.” Carolina whispered.

“Always,” Wash told her.

With a reassuring smile, Carolina left Wash in his room to unpack. When the door closed, a blanket of silence fell over Wash. He sat down on the edge of his bed, needing a rest from talking about Epsilon. He needed space from all of that, but he knew better than most that recovery didn’t mean space at all. Recovery meant being trapped, unable to _do_ anything. Unable to distract yourself from unpleasant memories or looming anxieties. Wash took a shaky breath and centered himself as best he could, scrubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. First thing’s first, he was taking a shower.

Tucker returned to his quarters late that afternoon. He was bored out of his mind with an oncoming migraine, so he figured he’d pass the time swiping through his datapad in bed. He shrugged off his sweatshirt and tossed it on the counter of his kitchenette, which is when he realized someone had _cleaned_ for him. Tucker examined the freshly tidied counters, and observed a small pile of his belongings heaped in front of his door. Peeking into the bathroom, he saw his stuff similarly piled to one side. On the other side sat only a toothbrush, deodorant, and a comb. The bathroom still felt warm from a shower—although there were no towels left on the ground.

 _Uh oh._ Tucker thought to himself. He nearly jumped out of his skin when he heard a door creak open behind him.

“Oh shit, you scared the crap out of me!” Tucker finally said after an awkward moment of _staring_. Wash’s hair was still damp from the shower, and he wore heather grey joggers and a slim-fitting knit shirt. Wash’s face looked drawn and exhausted; still, Tucker’s chest tightened in some whirlwind of emotions he didn’t have the capacity to sort through on such short notice.

“I guess we were assigned together,” Wash said with a shrug. “You should really lock the door.”

“Uh, okay. I guess so. It’s just our friends here, so, I wasn’t worried about it,” Tucker said. After a brief pause and seeing Wash’s unchanged expression, Tucker realized this was not up for debate and quickly went back to the door to lock it. “Okay, locked. All good?”

“And your clothes on the counter,” Wash motioned vaguely. Tucker sighed, grabbed his hoodie from the kitchenette, and started kicking the pile of clothes into his bedroom.

“You know, you’re not my CO anymore,” Tucker said. “Like, I’m happy to accommodate you as a roommate, but don’t get any ideas about wake-up times or anything.”

Wash’s face was priceless: so honest and surprised and _open_.

“What?” Tucker finally asked. “Why are you looking at me like that?’

Wash nearly cracked a smile and buried his face in one hand. A low chuckle came from his lips. “I can’t believe you,” he said.

“Can’t believe what?” Tucker asked.

“You-You just… Maine’s armor, and Epsilon, and you save my goddamn _life_ out there, and here you are acting like nothing happened. You’re so… _normal_.” Wash’s hand moved from his face to slide through his hair, shaking his head in disbelief.

“Whoa,” Tucker said in surprise. “I did not think you’d want to go there so fast, but… okay.” Tucker perched on the arm of the couch, since it seemed Wash was ready to talk. “I mean, yeah that was all really intense, but I guess I don’t see the point in dwelling on it?”

“It’s just… Epsilon, in my head, i-it was debilitating. I don’t understand,” Wash said with a disbelieving smirk. “And, you know, I owe you. For checking on me, by the pelican. If you hadn’t removed my helmet—you know, I would have—” Wash faltered, the look of Tucker’s shocked expression suddenly making him second-guess himself. Maybe he should have waited to bring this up. Was it just him, or were his hands shaking? “You know, Maine died that way. The Meta. He drowned in his own blood. In that helmet of yours.”

“Whoa, whoa, Wash, hang on,” Tucker rose to steady Washington’s hands, out in front of him as if he was looking for something to latch onto. Tucker guided Wash to the couch to take a seat. “You don’t need to obsess over this shit anymore, okay? We’re on a break, so be kind to yourself and _take a break_. Let yourself heal before you decide to pick at your scabs. _Christ._ ” Tucker was still holding Wash’s wrists, leaning protectively over him. “We don’t have to unpack all of this today, all right?”

Wash seemed to snap back to himself all of the sudden as he ripped his hands from Tucker’s grip, rubbing his wrist as though it had hurt. “I know, I know, it’s fine. I’m just saying--,” Wash couldn’t look at Tucker now. He felt foolish for letting it all spill out like that, without warning or context or anything. “ _I’m just saying_ , I know I’m not your CO anymore. Don’t worry about that.”

Tucker’s golden eyes seemed to peer into Wash, his lips forming a tight line as he seemed to be hedging whether or not he believed Wash.

“But really…” Wash added, quietly. “Thanks. For saving my life.”

Tucker’s eyes went still again, and Wash could hear his breath hitch. And then— _laughter_. Tucker threw his head back with a peel of laughter before lazily crashing onto the couch next to Wash.

“You’re fucking funny,” Tucker said. “You’ve saved my life like, a billion times now. And now you’re gonna get all sentimental about the _one time_ I get to return the favor?” Wash suddenly felt horribly insecure as a tinge of blush crept across his cheeks. He was just about to go crawl into his bed and pretend he wasn’t the most awkward human alive when Tucker rested his hand on Wash’s forearm.

“Dude, we’re friends. It’s okay. Friends do stuff for each other.”

Tucker’s warm smile was like sunlight and an ocean breeze and a comforting blanket all at once. Wash could only look at him, frozen underneath the hot, burning sensation of Tucker’s skin on his. When was the last time he felt the comfort of human contact? His bones ached under the touch, yearning for something more, and yet he was terrified of the inevitable moment when Tucker’s hand would move.

“Yeah,” Wash said in a voice that was much softer than he intended. “You’re right.”

“I’m sorry, what was that?” Tucker’s smile took on a mischievous note. “Can you repeat that for me? I’m not sure I heard you.”

Wash groaned and found himself standing up, leaving that touch and sunlight and comfort. “I’m going to bed,” he announced, leaving Tucker to snicker gleefully to himself on the couch while Wash closed the door on him. He leaned against his closed bedroom door and squeezed his eyes shut, trying not to focus on the chill he felt in the wake of Tucker’s hand.

 _That’s right_ , he remembered, _touching always hurts more when it’s gone._ A familiar twinge of something painful twisted in the depths of his gut, and he pressed his hands to his solar plexus without thinking. _Better to keep it away at all cost._

 He knew he needed to take Tucker’s advice and try to relax. For the moment at least, Wash could finish unpacking and curl into the covers of this new bed. It was still early, so he considered he might not sleep. _Probably won’t sleep._ But if he could just have the rest of the day to untangle his racing thoughts and figure out how to deal… that would probably be best for everyone.

 Coming off the battlefield has always been challenging for Wash. Back in Project Freelancer, the fight never ended and the battlefield was everywhere he went. Things were easier when the fight was either “on” or “off.” This nonsense with _waiting_ for the next fight was frustrating. A new round of intense physical therapy for _four weeks_ , thanks to a busted ACL and three cracked ribs, was all he had to keep himself busy. Even so, depending on how reactive his body was to the healing units, he wouldn’t be giving his all for another two months at least. On top of that, Doctor Padwell mentioned they would start the psychological review process on their new ship. Psych evals were usually low on Wash’s to-do list, but something about how cagey the doctor had been about their program put him additionally on edge.

Flipping through his discharge instructions, he noted a handwritten note demanding his presence for an “Initial Psych Review” two days from now. Included with the appointment appeared to be prescription renewals. Wash groaned to himself—of course she’d hold his meds hostage to ensure cooperation. He needed to remember to ask Carolina _ASAP_ about her thoughts on the process. Psych evals were totally normal procedure any time a soldier is removed from an extended stay in combat, but Carolina and he had their reasons not to open certain topics for discussion. It would be helpful if they got their stories straight, in the event a doctor unfamiliar with Project Freelancer might feel entitled to gauge how any person _“should respond to stressful, violent, or high-intensity combat situations.”_

The problem with the shrinks, in Wash’s opinion, is that the whole concept of healthy coping mechanisms was fatally flawed. How can anyone tell Wash how he is supposed to react to his own trauma? His own guilt, or terror, or desperation? How could a bunch of _labcoats_ know what it was like to survive his training? Had they ever run a mission after staying awake for three days? Had they ever been forced to train for thirty hours straight? Had they ever had the experience of trying to _stand from blood loss_ and _fight for their life_ at the same time?

In all the psychiatrists he’s met, there were two types. The first are the doctors who wanted to stretch their boney little fingers into the deepest crevices of his nightmares and claw out the good stuff. They wanted to hold his feet to the fire; they wanted his pain to _mean stuff_.

The second type was the doctor who saw Wash as a wildcard, tantalizingly dangerous and only one bad day away from _snapping_. Which, if the psychologists had their way, meant he would either become a vegetable or a raving madman. Sometimes they would make a big show of walking on eggshells, other times they antagonized him intentionally so they could catalogue his reactions as _“dangerous to himself or others.”_

Wash finished putting his clothes away, turned off all the lights, and crawled beneath the fluffy comforter in his bed. He had his datapad to keep him company—he frequently read volumes and volumes of books whenever they were on a break. Anything to keep him occupied. If he was too fatigued to pass the psych evals, not only would he not be cleared for reassignment, but his discharge might look less like retirement and more like a padded room. That was the last damn thing he needed, he thought. If he was ever institutionalized, he might actually go crazy.

He scrolled through the first few pages of some book on neoclassic literature before he decided to settle in for a long read. Even for a couple hours after that, Wash was pretty good.

 

* * *

 

Tucker was up earlier than usual around 6:00 AM after a _crazy_ dream. He woke with a massive startle, sweat cooling down the back of his neck and his heart beating a mile a minute. He scrubbed his face, blinking until the details of his room were clear again. Already, the specifics of the dream were fading. His eyes flicked to the glowing digits on his alarm clock and he sighed, crawling out of bed and resigned to start the day. He changed into a dry t-shirt, took his locs down from the bun on top of his head, secured his hair into a loose ponytail, and grabbed some thick socks. He already had plans to make coffee and watch some garbage early-morning news show. Maybe, if he felt motivated, he’d go up to the observation deck and check out the galaxy in the morning.

As much as Tucker generally hated mornings, the fact that few people were out and about so early was something he appreciated. Which is also why, when he opened his door and saw Wash hunched on the sofa in the pitch dark, Tucker shrieked in surprise.

“Holy shit man! Turn a light on or something, fuck! Scaring the shit out of people, lurking in the dark, unannounced and shit. Who raised you?!” Tucker griped.

Wash’s eyes were wide and calculating. “Tucker, are you okay?”

Tucker sighed and fumbled for the light switch to their foyer, finally reaching it with a _thwack_ of his hand. “Yeah dude, I just didn’t expect you to be hunkered down like a gremlin out here. It’s early.”

“I mean, er, Tucker…” Wash hesitated, “You were screaming?” It wasn’t a question, but Wash made it sound that way.

“Yeah, because you surprised me,” Tucker said again with an edge of annoyance in his voice.  
                “No, I meant, before—Tucker, did you just scream yourself awake? Are you sure you’re okay?” Wash’s voice was small and concerned, but he took on that _tone_ he did whenever he was trying to establish some kind of professional boundary. Tucker fucking hated that tone.

“I didn’t… I mean, I woke up, yeah. I had a crazy dream. I don’t think I screamed though, Wash.” Tucker said, all memories of the dream having faded. “What are YOU even doing up? You look like a gargoyle! Did you sleep at all?”

Wash sputtered for a minute. There was no doubt that he _definitely_ heard Tucker scream, but even Washington could take a hint once in a while. He dropped it, and shrugged off Tucker’s next comment. “I slept some.”

“Yeah what, like three hours?” Tucker snorted.

“Five hours,” Wash interrupted firmly.

“Go back to bed you fucking lunatic,” Tucker waved at him before shuffling into the bathroom. When Wash hadn’t moved a muscle after Tucker had relieved himself, brushed his teeth, and spent a solid ten minutes checking social media, Tucker crossed his arms and stood directly in front of his dense roommate. “Wash?” His tone was suddenly parental, surprising even himself.

“Hm?” Wash’s eyes barely met Tucker’s. Stormy grey lenses seemed preoccupied. This is when Tucker notices Wash has a fucking handgun clutched in his hands, poised with his elbows resting on his knees like it’s the most casual thing in the world.

“Wash, what are you doing with a gun right now? What are you doing sitting in the dark at the ass-crack of dawn?” Tucker softened his tone. He didn’t want to attack Washington, but he certainly wasn’t going to stand idly by if Wash started self-destructing. Simply put, he refused to be an enabler to Wash’s drama. 

Wash sighed heavily and shifted uncomfortably, unable to meet Tucker’s gaze at all now as he suddenly found the crown molding on his door frame exceptionally fascinating. After some fidgeting, Wash licked his lips slowly before confessing.

“I had to watch the door,” he muttered.

Tucker blinked a couple times before glancing behind him at the front door and back to Wash on the couch. “This door? The door that’s locked, and is in a living quarters that is _also_ locked from the rest of the ship? Wash, we’ve had less security than this the whole time we were on Chorus.”

“I know,” Wash said, shifting his eyes to the side. He almost looked… guilty? Tucker reached out to touch the blonde’s shoulder, but Wash’s sudden intake of breath and apparent flinch away from Tucker’s touch stilled his hand. “I’m sorry. I need to do this. It’s just because I’m somewhere new. That’s all,” Wash said in a slow, measured voice. “Once I’m used to the place, I won’t be out here every night like a lunatic.”

“Yeah, but we’re moving to the _Callisto Seven_ in like, six days,” Tucker scratched the back of his head while his brows scrunched together. “Are you gonna, like, not sleep until you’re used to sleeping at the new place?”

Wash’s rapid blinking gave away his surprise. He hadn’t thought of that. _Hoo boy_ , he was in for a long two weeks. With a heavy sigh, Wash finally looked back to Tucker. “Yeah, Tucker. That’s what that means.” Tucker could see from his roommate’s freckled face that he wasn’t super pleased about that.

“Well, look, if you’re gonna be up, why don’t you just come have breakfast? We can watch the Today Show, or whatever crap they’ve got on local news,” Tucker offered. Wash rolled his eyes, but conceded.

“ _I guess_ … something tells me that might be more entertaining than watching the front door,” Wash hedged. Tucker smiled then. Sometimes when Wash was wound up extra-tense, Tucker would have to engage in what he called _de-icing_. Washington could be a frigid, non-negotiable pain in the ass. By now, Tucker knew most of the time when he could de-ice his friend with a little humor and when to back the fuck off.

He was always glad when Wash thawed out. He was a surprisingly fun guy to be around, but the complications of the freelancer were many.

Wash had stood up, but spent a moment too long looking down at his pistol. “Can I—”

“Leave the gun, Wash,” Tucker said while rolling his eyes. “If you bring a loaded firearm out there, Caboose is _definitely_ going to find it and he is _definitely_ going to shoot someone.”

 After some kind of inner debate, Tucker watched Wash lie the handgun on the counter. “Yeah. Let’s not… invite… trouble,” Wash concluded.

 

* * *

 

The following couple days were exceedingly normal. Tucker would wake up screaming sometime in the early-to-mid-morning hours; Wash would camp on the sofa in front of the door. Wash read his books and hung out with the reds and blues. Tucker went shopping with Donut, watched TV, and jammed in his room with his music turned up too loud whenever he wasn’t napping. Wash was thinking about the softness and ease in which he managed to glide through the past 48 hours. He found himself worrying that he hadn’t enjoyed himself sufficiently, that he had taken such normalcy for granted. In an instant, Wash found himself reminiscing for sunnier times as soon as the doctor clicked her ballpoint pen.

“All right, Wash,” Doc Padwell started. “We’re just going to start with routine questions and get a sense of things as a… base line, if you will.”

“Base line?” Wash asked. “You mean, this isn’t part of the process? To get cleared for reassignment?”

Doc Padwell hummed a noncommittal noise. “I’m interested in preserving your mental state as of this moment the best I’m able. For the records. This way, if we need to look back--,”

“Look back?” Wash asked incredulously. “If you’d looked at my file, you’d know there’s plenty to go off—,”

“Wash I _have_ looked at your file,” Doc Padwell said, “and I understand you don’t want to be here. I get that.” The doctor took a tense breath. “But I’m afraid if we don’t establish a base line, the integrity of your treatment could be at risk.”

Wash stupidly blinked for several moment. “What treatment?” he asked dumbly. His voice was strained and he could feel his heart rate jump again. _Oh no. Not here._ The doctor continued to speak.

“When you and your friends transfer to _Callisto Seven_ , the psych teams they have there are cooperatively owned—civilian and military. The idea is to have as ethically-neutral teams as possible, but there’s been some criticism in the medical community. Sometimes information doesn’t get passed between care teams, which can be dangerous for the patient. Worse, they wear their ethics like a flag, and use overly broad terms to define their success of treatments. If they ever come under direct criticism for findings or results, they tout themselves as the best in field and claim ‘best practice,’” the doctor rolled her eyes. “Frankly, they can be _unscientific_. If anything happens, I want to make sure we have these answers on file _now_ , so they can’t skew their data for the _god damn insurance_ …”

Doc Padwell was muttering off into a tangent, but Wash only heard half of what she said. “Doctor Padwell,” he said forcefully. “What. Treatment.”

The doctor paused her pontificating to look carefully into Wash’s face. It’s a _thing_ all psych professionals tended to do. Wash’s heart was starting to pound while he directed his attention to taking measured breaths.

 _Doesn’t she know I can see her when she stares like that? No, stay cool,_ he thought to himself. _Stay calm_. _Don’t panic_.

“Just the treatment plans they’re going to draw up after the initial analysis. Every patient gets one—it’s a plan of addressing the patient’s unique issues and mediating unfavorable responses.”

Wash seemed to be frozen in place. When he didn’t say anything, she continued. “It’s normal, Wash, it’s nothing out of the ordinary.” A brief pause. “I didn’t mean to alarm you, hon.”

Wash stood up silently. “I appreciate what you’re trying to do here, Doc, but I’m going to take my chances with the new team.” He looked down at the woman still seated in the chair opposite himself.

“Wash, if you leave, I’m legally obligated to mark in your file—” the doctor rapidly explained.

“Do what you have to do, Doc. We’re done here.” Wash’s curt exit was matched in rudeness only by its speed. His heart was pounding, shaking, crashing in his ears. The sounds of the busy medical office faded into the distance _. If you start to hyperventilate, it’s over_ , he thought. _Keep it under wraps._

His swift exit put him on a path to his living quarters in record time, but by the time he opened the main door he was hanging on by a thread. His slow, measured breathing seemed to do little to calm his trembling hands, and his thoughts were racing: _Do not hyperventilate—Do not start—Do not lose it—do not panic—do not lose control I swear to God if you—_

He didn’t even hear the chaos of Donut and Grif bickering over the TV or Carolina trying to catch his attention. Every sound was deafening on its own, and the violent symphony of it all made his ears ring. With a final push he made it to the other side of his unit’s door, frantically locking the deadbolt and covering his ears. Wash stilled himself and took slow, controlled breaths. He counted them: Inhale one, two, three, four.

Somehow, the noise wasn’t going away. For a moment he couldn’t determine the source, as though it was some omnipresent voice shouting into all directions equally. He counted his breath: Hold one, two, three, four.

He focused and strained to listen. _Tucker’s room_. The noise is from Tucker’s room, and Wash thinks it’s music. He counted his breath: Exhale one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight.

 _Okay, again_. Wash took another deep breath and found himself outside of Tucker’s door, knocking loudly. When the door opened the noise came pouring out like a mudslide over Wash’s senses.

“Can you turn your music down?” he managed to grit out. Tucker looked moderately annoyed, but he complied. The music was low enough that Wash could recognize that it was, in fact, music. But everything was still sharp and awful.

“Anything else?” Tucker asked.

“I’m sorry,” Wash paused. “When I asked you to turn it down, I think I meant, if you could turn it off, please.” Wash rubbed his brow with his fingers and realized he was holding his breath.

_No, no, count it. Inhale one, two._

_Two._

_T-two…_

Washington’s chest threatened to quiver. _No, no no no no… Inhale one, two, three, Exhale one, two three, Inhale one…_

“Wash!” Tucker was practically shouting in his face for the third time. He was close, Wash realized, and with a jolt he stumbled backwards for fear of that _closeness_.

 _If he touches me again, I am going to burn up_ , the errant thought flitted across his mind.

“Wash, are you okay? Can you hear me?” Tucker’s voice is softer now, but more urgent. It’s several moments before Wash notices he’s on the floor. He seems to be sitting up okay, if he leans on his arms, but the trip backwards had sent the room spinning.

 _Count it up. Count it up. Count them. Count._ His thoughts tumbled, and his chest heaved. He couldn’t catch his breath anymore, and he clutched a hand to his solar plexus again. Tucker was on his eyelevel in an instant, locs tumbling down one side and _glasses_ … Wash hadn’t even noticed Tucker wearing glasses before.

But that didn’t matter, because Tucker’s beautiful copper eyes were close again and a hand was cradling the side of his face. _This is it. I’m going to burn_. An icy bolt of lightening pierced Wash to his core in anticipation.

“Wash,” Tucker cooed softly, “Hey, everything’s okay, remember? It’s just you and me here, and the door is locked, and the music is off. Just breathe. Are you breathing? Wash?”

All of the sudden, Washington’s bleary grey eyes came back into focus. He wasn’t burning, after all. With one shaky breath, Wash found himself leaning into Tucker’s hand—a hot touch like good coffee, warm spices, and dark chestnut. _Oh, that beautiful skin_ , Wash thought. Gently, he pushed Tucker’s hand away because Wash _knew_ how much his face would ache now that he’s felt that touch and suddenly _it’s gone_.

“Tucker,” Wash started with another slow, measured breath. “I am so, so sorry. For this whole… performance,” he started to chuckle despite feeling foolish.

“Wash, what _was_ that? Was that… _a panic attack?”_ Tucker looked invariably concerned. Tucker had seen Washington have rough days both before and during the war on Chorus, but he was beginning to suspect he only ever saw the aftermath. Tucker never saw Wash lose his composure before, and he definitely never saw any panic attacks.

Wash felt the vines of shame wind into his chest, the way they do when he’s feeling particularly crazy. “I’m such a fucking mess,” Wash’s voice bordered on laughter. If he didn’t know better, he thought there might be a wayward tear forming in his eye. “I’m having anxiety about my anxiety and my migraines have their own migraines. Oh my God. _Fucking Christ_ , I’m sorry, usually I can keep it all… you know, behind closed doors.”

“Hey, where is your med bag? You need a pill. Like, a big one,” Tucker said. Wash stopped laughing and began to search Tucker’s face for… _something_. Tucker glanced to the side uncomfortably. “I don’t mean _like that_. It’s just, it’s good to have, with the anxiety.” Tucker glanced back into Wash’s face. Every freckle seemed illuminated in his post-panic daze, with a faint rosiness tinging his cheeks from the stress of it all. The scar over his eyebrow that usually made the freelancer look gruff now appeared soft. But his eyes, those blue-grey storms, were just teetering on the edge of disappointment.

“Hey, I get it too sometimes. I don’t think you’re crazy,” Tucker said firmly, and Wash seemed relieved. There it was—the de-ice. Wash let out another deep breath and Tucker saw his shoulders visibly relax. “Let me go find you that pill,” Tucker said before quickly getting to his feet. Wash managed to find himself off the floor and onto the couch. His eyes flickered up to the door again, just to make sure it was still locked.

Wash rubbed his eyes with one hand, suddenly overcome with the desire to chastise himself into oblivion: _fucking thirty-six-goddamn-years-old and I’m still pulling this stupid shit…_ But Tucker was already back with half a pill and a glass of water to interrupt his thoughts.

“Here. This isn’t enough to fuck with you, but it should take the edge off,” Tucker explained. Wash noted he needed to ask Tucker how the hell he knew all about prescription medications but couldn’t figure out how the thermostat worked. Regardless, Wash took the medicine. Tucker slouched into the sofa next to him. “You sure know how to make a man worry,” was all he said.

Wash gave a weak smile. “Yeah, I’ve been told I’m good at that. I’m sorry you have to deal with it. I… I know it’s a nuisance.”

Tucker waved his hand in Wash’s face with a _pshh_. “Don’t feel bad about, you know, having the reactions you do. Or whatever. We’ve all got our quirks. I just worry you won’t… reach out… you know, if you need it.”

Wash couldn’t help himself from looking too closely at Tucker’s face then. Sharp cheekbones, lovely locs that rested just on his shoulders, and that glowing complexion that was part melanin and part sunny disposition. He didn’t know Tucker wore glasses in his downtime, though. They looked good. “I can reach out,” Wash said somewhat defensively.

“I don’t know that you can, dude! Look, I’m not a doctor, but are you sure you would have had a panic attack today if you hadn’t straight-up _avoided_ me the past 48 hours? I knew you had that fucking therapy appointment today. I tried to touch base with you, but you were all _‘I’m fine, stop bothering me, put some pants on and get out of my room,’_ ” Tucker argued. The exasperated look he gave Wash told him Tucker was serious. Wash groaned and buried his face in his hands. Here he was, thinking the past two days had been nice.

 

“Tucker, can we not? Like, right this second? I mean, at least give the meds a chance to kick in,” Wash said from behind the palms of his hands. Tucker was still, then, and patiently waited. After a few moments of silence, Wash leaned back into the couch and dropped his hands at his sides. “It would help if you didn’t try to pry it out of me after barging into my bedroom, for starters,” Wash corrected. “But I can try, you know, to be more honest when you ask. About how I’m doing.”

The freelancer grimaced inwards a bit. “I’m not good at this… emotional stuff, Tucker. You’re my friend, and I don’t want to become a burden to you. However, I think I can own up that I have a hard time striking a balance between honesty and…,” Wash sighed. “I don’t know. All my baggage.”

“Wow.” Tucker said. “You’re totally right dude, I thought I was gonna have to pry it out of you.”

Wash opened his mouth to make a retort, but the words dissipated when Tucker reached over and grabbed Wash’s hand. Deftly interlacing their fingers, Tucker gave a gentle squeeze.

“Tucker…” Wash said quietly. He seemed to be searching for the words. “You don’t—you can’t touch me like that.” His voice was more choked than Wash’s pride would have liked to admit; his hand was burning hot in Tucker’s grip. “Not… if you’re going to let go.” His voice was barely above a whisper.

Tucker only squeezed his hand tighter. “Don’t worry dude, I won’t let go.” His tone was light, and there it was again—normalcy. _How does he do that?_ Wash wondered. Tucker could find calmness in a hurricane, the way a biting cold wind dies down in the sun. Tucker was his sun, his warmth, his _normal_. Wash found himself focusing on the feeling of Tucker’s outstretched hand. “Do you remember when we would do this in the hospital?” Tucker asked suddenly.

Wash’s brow furrowed as he tried to think back. “When?” he finally asked.

Tucker’s thumb was now stroking steadily over Wash’s torn and battered knuckles. “Here, when you were in-patient. And before…” Tucker’s voice quickly became a hushed thing. “I remember you held my hand like this when I was recovering from my stab wound.”

Wash’s face flushed red and he could feel every cell in his body freeze in trepidation. He did, in fact, hold Tucker’s hand then. He held Tucker’s hand other times too, but he never thought the other soldier was aware of it.

 “It was nice,” Tucker added. “This is nice.” Tucker didn’t let go, and Wash felt the anti-anxieties kick in with a _whoosh_. His muscles gently melted into the couch as his breathing became effortless. His head naturally eased backwards into the couch. He wasn’t even sure how long he’d been sitting there before he promptly fell asleep, with Tucker’s hand in his and everything finally quiet.


	2. Doctors Aren't Your Friends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: dark themes, violence and torture, ptsd, and hangovers

“Um, okay. No. I’m not doing this.”

The declaration was calm but concrete. Washington stood outside the circle of friends, all seated with the counselor and looking miserable. They had been aboard the _Callisto Seven_ for weeks, and finally the doctors had them locked in a room with a shrink. _All of them_.

Donut and Doc seemed at ease, Donut taking the liberty to sport his new pink sweatshirt that had “ _H O T T I E”_ printed on it. Doc wore a blue linen button-up, looking _strangely_ professional for a graduate of Jamaica State. Tucker’s locs were down and ghosted his collar bones, a backwards baseball cap securing them. Caboose had an enormous blue sweater that, despite his already substantial build, seemed to swallow him up in its knitted confines. Simmons and Griff were in t-shirts and jeans, and Sarge wore a red plaid flannel. Even Carolina was in civvies—black leggings and a long-sleeved tunic, looking surprisingly soft and feminine. Wash felt silly standing around in his black fatigues, and even sillier at the prospect of _taking a seat_.

“Wash, all of your friends have agreed to take an hour out of their day to be here. I would hope you would not turn your back on their trust like this, when they have agreed to at least _try_ to work with the process,” the shrink said. He was an older gentleman with a beard and he wore a vest like a douchebag, Wash decided.

“First of all, this process doesn’t _require_ group therapy. It requires a substantial examination into each subject to clear a variety of standards for redeployment or discharge—NONE of which are appropriate for a _group pissing session_.” Wash tried to bite back the fury in his voice.

“You’re free to leave if you want, but as your friends here have decided, this is more efficient. If you would like, we can schedule _daily interviews_ with you on behalf of each psych team in order to meet the care standards. Otherwise, you can stick to the schedule of three times a week with the military unit and _one group therapy session_ with me in the civilian unit. That is entirely your choice, Agent Washington.”

Wash bristled at the suggestion and looked accusingly at his friends. Carolina’s arms were crossed as she slouched in her seat, but the look she gave Wash communicated one thing: under-whelmed. Tucker was no better, he was chewing gum and flipping through his phone, refusing to even acknowledge Wash’s presence. Caboose sat strangely still with his hands folded in his lap and his eyes lowered.

“Really, you guys? You wanna share your feelings with each other all of the sudden?” Wash asked, exasperated.

“Uh, I’ve actually become really attached to a television show that airs during the alternative therapy appointments, so, yeah. I guess we’re gonna talk about our _feelings_ with Dr. Smiley here,” Grif grumbled.

“How _else_ am I supposed to make sure Grif isn’t slacking off?” Sarge raised. Wash promptly ignored him and looked glaringly to Carolina.

She sighed looked to Wash. “It’s less sessions overall, Wash. Just do the math. Come on, we can suffer together.” There was a pause in her voice and a pointed look that read loudly, _please do not leave me to suffer this bullshit on my own, Wash_.

Wash closed his eyes, took a breath, and sat down in the _fucking circle_ in the empty chair between Carolina and Tucker. “ _Fine.”_

“Wonderful, I’m glad you decided to join us,” the shrink said with a cutting tone. “Now, for those of you who haven’t heard, I am Dr. Emerly. I work for the Callisto Psychiatric Association. I am a psychologist that specializes in assessing the likelihood of success for conflict-zone soldiers when assimilating to civilian society. We use group sessions for soldiers who have worked in a close-knit team because it expands on the trust you already share for each other, and it allows you to support your friends in ways that are typically not disclosed outside of counseling appointments.”

Wash could feel Carolina tense up. He smiled to himself at the thought of her just _biting her tongue_ against all the hundreds of quips and retorts she had. Wash knew already, this doctor was one of those ignorant ones who thinks airing dirty laundry is something that was going to help. But Carolina and Wash? They knew that trying to clear out that shit by bringing it up only spread it around more. What a waste of time.

The doctor took a deep breath and began to flip through his clipboard. “I see the last encounter all of you had is still fresh—approximately three months ago. Has everyone been healing well?”

Icebreaker: check. Therapists were so predictable.

“Donut?” the shrink prompted.

“Oh, yeah I’m fine. My back healed up nicely and I recently got cleared to stop wearing the back-brace,” Donut said in his cheerful tone. The brevity of the statement was somewhat alarming to Wash; he definitely wasn’t the only one uncomfortable with group-sharing, which was really saying something for Donut.

“Simmons?” the shrink prompted again.

“Uh, I’m doing good. I wear this boot now, and the crutches are gone. My mechanic just finished working on updating my robot stuff too, so, you know… good.”

“And Grif?” the last prompt.

“I’m fine,” Grif said curtly.

“Good, it looks like many of you are back on your feet. Agents Washington and Carolina, my understanding is that the two of you had severe injuries. Are things healing up?”

Wash sighed. “Yeah, never better.”

“My eyesight in my right eye is badly damaged, but it’s improving,” Carolina said in an even tone.

“Washington, are you back to full health already?” Dr. Emerly asked pointedly.

Nothing could really be further from the truth. Wash’s leg was still awfully tender when he pushed it, and the massive pink scar on the side of his head still looked angry and sensitive beneath the new hair growth. His ribs were mostly healed, but he wasn’t cleared for any kind of enduring physical activity. He couldn’t train or even just _go for a run_. He’d been stir-crazy from it all.

“I am working on it,” Wash answered.

“Good to hear. So, the last mission you were all on—a success, apparently, since you’re all here and alive now?” Dr. Emerly quickly dug into the first vein, his pen like a pickaxe on the clipboard.

Round one: started.

“I miss Church,” Caboose said quietly.

“Yes, the AI implant known as _Epsilon_ ,” the doctor supplied. “Tell me more about that. Were you all close to him?”

This time, Wash could feel Tucker tense. “He was our _friend_ , and he’s _dead_ now. But like, you know, it’s not the first time we’ve lost him, so we’re kind of used to this song-and-dance.”

Dr. Emerly’s reaction was careful, but Wash knew already this was a conversation that would soon be out of his depth.

“Does everyone feel the same way?” the doctor asked. Some of them nodded, but Wash and Carolina didn’t budge.

“Why don’t we talk about how you all worked together during the mission. That was pretty neat, right guys? Your teamwork paid off, and you’re all safe now. What kind of dynamics between yourselves do you think most helped you leave the _Staff of Charon_ successfully?” Emerly set up the scene, and the actors would be performing in 3…2…1…

“We didn’t fucking _win_ , if that’s what you’re suggesting,” Grif spat. “We were _rescued_.”

“Yeah, no joke, we would have definitely died if the peace troopers hadn’t showed up,” Donut added. “There were like, a billion soldiers all trying to get a piece, if you know what I mean!”

“My understanding is that your group fought _very well_. I’d like to give everyone in this room permission to feel proud about the fact that they had simply lived long enough for help to arrive. Is that not worth something?” Emerly suggested.

“Tucker did most of the work,” Sarge offered the bait. Wash pinched his eyes shut for a hot second— _Jesus Christ_ did Sarge know how to throw someone under the bus. “He was like a real soldier out there!”

“Yeah, it was fucking awesome! Epsilon ran Tucker’s suit and he had the sword and we would have _never_ _made it out of there_ otherwise,” Simmons added on.

“He was like, juggling machine guns, and throwing guys, it was incredible!” Doc said.

All eyes were on Tucker, who sat still with a blank, mundane expression as he chewed his gum. “Yeah I don’t remember that. Any of that.”

A terse silence filled the air. Tucker’s brow furrowed a little. “And honestly? I’ve been kind of a badass for _a while_ now, so y’all don’t have to go sounding so surprised and shit.”

“You don’t remember _anything_?” Carolina said with some level of shock and horror.

“I mean, I remember being _way_ too hot, and having to take my helmet off. I also remember getting caught in a grenade explosion that nearly nailed me to a metal pillar. But hey, just a concussion, you know?” a brief pause. “Nothin’ to it.”

“Carolina,” the shrink started in. Wash’s fists clenched unintentionally, knowing that the doctor’s surgical gaze was peering into her. “Why do you think it matters that Captain Tucker doesn’t remember fighting?”

Carolina took the time to choose her words very carefully. “Running an AI in your equipment, if a person hasn’t been trained for it, can be… taxing to a person. Sometimes, AIs make mistakes, or have malfunctions.”

“Captain Tucker, do you think your lack of memory of the fighting might be the result of a mistake or malfunction of your AI?” The doctor asked.

“I don’t really know. I’m not a scientist, or an engineer, or an IT guy. I just swing my sword around—heh, _bowchickabowow_ ,” Tucker cracked. Even Wash felt himself smiling at that. Tucker knew how to defuse a situation, usually using a level of tact so low it was impressive.

“Well, what was your experience of the battle then without those memories?” Emerly pressed onwards.

All evidence of amusement instantly vanished from Tucker’s face. He stilled and didn’t say anything for a long time, and eventually the doctor prodded him again. “Captain Tucker?”

“Um, it was… loud?” Tucker said uselessly. “The AI was, uh, yelling a lot. There was a lot going on.”

“Reports here show that you were dangerously overheated, dehydrated, and confused after the event. That sounds very stressful.”

“Er, yeah. It was a huge fight. We didn’t think we were gonna…” Tucker trailed off, and Wash’s stomach turned as he saw the classic set-up. Tucker’s eyes suddenly flickered; distant and foggy.

Round 1: complete. Meltdown initiated.

“Captain Tucker,” the shrink started in for the kill. “Is there something about the battle that you remember exceptionally well?”

Tucker blinked slowly and stopped chewing his gum. In stillness, his eyes snapped up to the doctor’s face. “What’s the use in that?” It was the answer to a question Dr. Emerly hadn’t asked: _Would you like to tell us what’s keeping you up at night?_

“Maybe it’s time to hear from others about their experience with the battle. Sarge? Would you like to continue for Tucker?” the shrink asked.

Wash felt some sense of satisfaction on the payback of Sarge’s cold-call. Tucker stood up to spit his gum out and sat back down. By the time he was seated again, any hint of emotion had been wiped clean from his visage.  Wash pretended not to notice and began picking at his fingernails while Sarge attempted to divert.

Sarge was not successful, and Dr. Emerly latched onto the red leader’s battle story. Given the opportunity to speak to an audience, however, Sarge’s monologue quickly took on a life of its own. To Wash’s immense satisfaction, reigning in Sarge’s dramatic performance proved to be a hefty task for their psychologist. Sarge’s oversharing and tangential stories graciously ate up the rest of their hour as Dr. Emerly’s frustration became more apparent.

“Okay, everyone, that’s time for today. I’ll see you all next week,” the doctor wrapped up. By this time, many of them were struggling to hide their snickers and made a swift exit to properly laugh at Sarge’s beautiful masterpiece of a diversion.

“That was _fucking amazing_ Sarge!” Grif laughed. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but your horrible petulance really came in handy back there.”

“Can we do that every session?” Simmons asked.

“I don’t see why not. I don’t see why we weren’t doing that from the get-go,” Donut chimed in. “I have a lot of things I’m stressed about—the difficulties of switching to a vegan diet, transphobia in gay spaces, and also Kim Kardashian. I’m sure Dr. Emerly would be helpful.”

Doc spoke up. “Um, you guys? You know counseling can be very helpful in certain situations—”

“Yeah, Frankie, but this guy’s a _douchebag_!” Donut explained.

 _Called it_ , Wash thought to himself. “Hm. Fair point,” Doc responded. “But if you’re gonna waste his time, just make sure he can’t legally order you to comply. Or, you know, be subtler about it.”

“Ha! Subtle!” Carolina nearly shouted in jest, like that was ever gonna happen.

Wash was grateful to be out of the medical building. Their group made the trek back to the tram system that connected the whole ship. _Callisto Seven_ was, indeed, massive. It was _at least_ as big as the _Mother of Invention_ , but Wash hedged it was actually a bit larger. The upper decks were civilian and the lower decks were military. Below there, the enormous cargo hold that had generated a whole city’s economy.

In the military compound they each had rooms scattered about the barracks. Wash had the option to elect for a single room, but Tucker had asked him to room together again. The freelancer remembered Tucker seeming a little embarrassed by it, but had said “I don’t want to end up with someone I don’t know and I _really_ don’t want to end up with Caboose, okay?” That was a pretty good reason, Washington thought.

So, Wash and Tucker shared a suite: two bedrooms, one bathroom. Mess hall two floors up, laundry six floors down. Rec room in each wing. To be fair, Wash first asked Tucker if he wouldn’t rather opt to room alone, or even with Carolina if she’d have him.

Tucker had scoffed. “They told me I didn’t have clearance for a single, and that they had recently cracked down on co-ed living situations due to too much drama among soldiers, I guess.”

“Well that’s… heteronormative,” Wash had said uncomfortably. Tucker just shrugged and walked away with a quick “Thanks dude.”

On the tram ride home from group therapy, the reds were still rolling with the bit about the psychologist. Doc, Tucker, and Carolina were sitting quietly nearby among themselves. Doc and Carolina appeared to be in some deep conversation about psychoanalyses, but Tucker had resigned to watching the scenery fly by. Upon realizing Wash was looking at him, they made eye contact and Tucker’s head cocked to the side in a question. “Uh, Wash? What’s up dude?”

Blinking a few times, Wash snapped back to the present time and place. “Sorry, didn’t realize I was staring,” he said. Still, he moved to sit next to Tucker and watch the scenery with him. Wash was pleased that he handled today better than his interactions with Doc Padwell, but he still felt drained. Walls were hard work, and sometimes if you’re particularly hurt or tired it can be hard to keep them up. Wash had been regaining his strength, slow but steady, and the walls were coming back like old friends.

At length, Wash began sneaking glances at Tucker. The soldier was still with his arms crossed in the seat. His backwards snapback still secured his locs from dipping into his eyes when his head suddenly dozed forward.  It had only been a moment, but Wash caught it before Tucker snapped himself back up with a sharp breath.

“Hey, what was that? You okay?” Wash asked in a low voice so as not to draw attention.

“I’m just tired,” Tucker mumbled.

Washington let it rest at that, but he became increasingly concerned at Tucker’s lack of energy after the whole appointment. It seemed he would usually be over with the reds cracking jokes, or at least loudly complaining to anyone who would listen. Wash wasn’t sure if he could believe Tucker when he said he didn’t remember anything about Epsilon’s participation in the battle, but at the same time it might make sense that his brain just didn’t… record all that much, with the amount of AI power between Epsilon’s fragments. Maybe Tucker was content to not remember, but that damned doctor and his prying eyes were sure to get under his skin.

If the reds didn’t step up their game with distracting the doctor from drilling their teammates, Washington would take up the cause for that. Maybe next time, he would throw Sarge under the bus. Although, now that Wash thought back, he must have felt terrible for opening that can of worms. That could be the only reason he so jovially responded to the cold-call. The sense of satisfaction Wash had earlier from the situation dissolved into something like respect.

These guys, they’re great friends, and wonderfully unique people, but Wash knew that they didn’t have a clue how bad this could be. What he did know was the closer they stuck together, the easier it would be for everyone. The individual interviews with the military psychologist… they were all on their own for that fight.

And it _was_ a fight, as far as Wash was concerned.

“Hey, do you drink?” Tucker suddenly asked Wash.

“Uh, I haven’t in a while. But, I guess I could.”

“I’m thinking about picking up some beers before I head back to the bunks. Any kind in particular you like?” Tucker looked like he could use a drink, actually.

Wash thought a moment. “I don’t know if I like the idea of anyone outside of base by themselves.”

Tucker looked seriously unimpressed. “I think I can handle it, Wash. I’m a big boy. I’m even legal,” he cracked a smirk.

Wash huffed a bit of laughter. “Still, it makes me nervous. I’ll come with you.” It wasn’t a question—even if it was more for Washington than for Tucker, it was happening.

Soon, they were approaching their stop, and Tucker announced to the friends they were making a pit stop. “Want anything?” he asked.

“Get Grif some deodorant,” Simmons chided.

“Yeah and get Simmons some tampons,” Grif said.

“We’re fine,” Carolina said. “Text when you’re back on base, okay?” Wash nodded, feeling secure that Carolina shared his concern about any solo-movement outside the compound.

The trip to the liquor store was quick and uneventful, but Wash was having a hard time acclimating to these normal, mundane situations. Wash instinctively waited outside at the door while Tucker retrieved his beer. Unexpectedly normal things, like when Tucker would page through his wallet for his debit card, or when he would pull up a bus schedule on his phone, or when he smiled at Wash and said something like “Oh, I missed this.” Wash couldn’t relate; there was nothing for him to miss about this life. Everything felt foreign and cold. Reassignment would be a sweet relief.

Tucker came out of the store with two 24-packs. “Holy shit, Tucker, you’re not having a party, are you?” Wash asked, eyeing the number of beers.

“Be helpful and hold one,” Tucker said, handing off one heavy case. “Maybe a pity party, but that’s it,” Tucker chuckled as they walked towards a bus stop. They were home within the hour, short of passing the multitude of security checkpoints. Suddenly with a _BANG_ , Tucker dropped his pack of beer onto the sidewalk as a look of terror flashed over him.

“ _Oh fuck no_ —Wash?” Tucker called. He seemed paralyzed in the spot, and when Wash didn’t immediately respond a fist of panic grasped his heart. “WASH?” Tucker shouted as he spun to find his friend. Tucker felt unusually disoriented in his movements.

“Jesus Christ, Tucker, I’m right here!” Wash covered his ear closest to his friend. “I was just about to text Carolina. What is it?”

“Look, over there, by the bus stop,” Tucker said urgently. “It’s fucking _Felix_ , dude. You see him?”

Tucker instantly had Wash’s full attention, who squinted his eyes as he scanned the area. “I don’t see him, Tucker. Are you sure? I mean, really sure? Because… you told me he was dead.” Tucker quickly searched the same scenery again to find him. Felix had been right there across the street, hands in his pockets and staring _right at them_. There was no confusion, there was no way it was some other stranger. _Felix was fucking alive_ , Tucker thought with dread in his stomach.

“I know what I saw,” Tucker said. “But I don’t… he’s gone.”

“No, but, I mean, you had confirmation with Felix’s death. Because of the energy sword? Locus wouldn’t have been able to use it unless Felix had definitely died,” Wash said. “It’s more likely it was just an uncanny-looking stranger, Tucker. Try not to let it bother you.” Wash paused once more when he saw Tucker wasn’t snapping to, was still staring wide-eyed and looking for evidence that wasn’t there.

 _But he had seen him_ , Tucker reassured himself. Fuckboy haircut, orange scarf, leather jacket, the whole fucking stereotype was right there a moment ago. Tucker finally looked at Washington when the freelancer picked up the pack of beer from Tucker’s feet.

“Don’t worry about it, Tucker. We should get back and do something about all this beer,” Wash said lightly.

“Yeah,” Tucker said distractedly, following Wash through the checkpoints.

Tucker was nine beers deep by the time Wash had finished his fifth. The freelancer wasn’t extensively interested in a hangover, so he was ready to call it quits soon. Tucker sat on his bedroom floor and Wash leaned back in Tucker’s computer chair. They’d spent the last couple hours just _unwinding_ , talking shit about all the goofy crap they’d seen each other do in the middle of battle. One time, Wash saw Tucker pick a wedgie in between beating down a couple space pirates. Tucker claimed he happened to see Wash stop in a battle to hide and eat a snack, but Wash vehemently denied it.

“No, man, I fucking _saw you_ ,” Tucker was laughing. “Just like I saw that shitbag across the street today! I saw with my _goddamn eyes_.” Wash couldn’t help but snort at the end of lengthy laughter, but by the time he had gathered himself Tucker was going on again. “I don’t know how he did it, but Felix is alive, and he’s out there Wash. We gotta—we should just kill him and get it over with, we can’t let him just keep… being a dickbag. Out there.”

Wash made a frustrated sound before lining up his empty can among the others on Tucker’s desk. “Tucker, I don’t think that’s right, okay? I’m pretty sure he’s dead. ‘Cause of the sword. We—we talked about this.” Tucker handed him another beer and Wash wasn’t smart enough to decline.

“No, Wash, don’t be dumb,” Tucker said. “Because he was right there, and you don’t know, can’t know, for a FACT, that Felix is dead. We never saw a body. There could be some—some workaround, or some exception to the rule. We don’t have exhaustive knowledge of the sword and alien shit, you know.”

“Oh. My god. Okay, Tucker, I’ll humor you. Even _IF_ there was some cosmic loophole with the sword AND Felix survived a _400-foot drop_ , he would be so broken from that fall he wouldn’t be able to walk for like, _a while_. So forget about it, okay?” Wash sighed.

“That’s supposed to make me feel better? Oh, even if he’s alive he won’t be coming to kill anybody until he’s done with physical therapy,” Tucker laughed at his own lame joke. “I don’t know, he’s a pretty tricksy piece of shit.”

“Tucker you _didn’t see him_! I know you saw _something_ , but you need to consider the _option_ that you just made a mistake! It’s more likely, and honestly, you don’t want a lot of people hearing about you seeing dead people _during your psych evals_. I literally— _cannot_ —stress this enough, Tucker.”

Tucker was quiet for a moment. “You think those doctors are going to pass us?”

Wash tipped his beer back and sighed loudly. “Fuck, I don’t know,” he said flatly.

Tucker’s face was such an open book when he’d been drinking, and Wash could see every thought cross that very expressive face. He seemed genuinely stunned that Wash had so laxly rebuffed the inquiry. Wash felt almost guilty for being so forward.

“I mean… probably. Most of us will probably pass with no issue at all. I’ll be honest, I have a steep climb ahead of me. If I want to get redeployed any time in the next _decade,_ I’ll need to play my cards close to my chest,” Wash tried to sound confident about that part. “But you and the others should be fine. You just can’t draw any extra attention to yourself. You all have clean psych records, so they don’t have any reason to look for strange behaviors. Fly under the radar, you know?”

Tucker’s brow knitted together and a firm from seemed to set on his face. “Wash, are you applying for redeployment after this?”

Wash’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline. “Are you not?’

“No, dude. I’m done. I’m getting the fuck out of here as fast as I can,” Tucker said. “I don’t get why you wouldn’t do the same thing.”

Wash felt very uncomfortable all of the sudden, like a ghost inhabiting a human body rather than a person in the room. _Tucker is leaving_ , he thought. _I will be alone_.

“What would I possibly do with discharge?” Wash asked with a laugh.

“What kind of question is that? Fucking retire, man! You’ve worked enough! You can’t tell me you don’t have a retirement package after working for years in a _special ops program_ ,” Tucker said.

“No, I-I do. Finances aren’t the issue.” Wash fell into a discomforting silence then. “I don’t think I can do civilian life.”

“You’re doing fine right now,” Tucker said, swirling his beer to indicate his point. Wash smiled at that.

“This is temporary, so I can deal. But without something in front of me? I think it would be trouble,” Wash explained. “What are you planning on doing in retirement?”

Tucker shook his head. “I don’t know, man, but I plan to retire as _hard_ as I can. I think you should really, you know, consider leaving the military. It’s—It’s not good for you to stay here. For anyone, I mean, to stay here.”

“I don’t think it’s good for me to be a civilian again in general. I don’t have anywhere to retire to, anyways, so until then…” Wash shrugged. “Honestly, I’ve always assumed I’d be killed on the job. Most people in my kind of field don’t live much past forty. So, I’ve got _that_ to look forward to.”

At Tucker’s horrified look, Wash scrambled to recover. “No, Tucker, I’m _joking_. Please relax.”

“About your life expectancy or looking forward to reaching it?” Tucker said with a pained expression that Wash had to ignore.

“Well, about the… second part,” Wash muttered, but continued. “That doesn’t change the fact that retirement is just not really an option for me.”

“Fuck, Wash. I mean, forget about dying on the battlefield, fucking _Felix_ could be out there right now and we could be dead before we even _noticed him_. This whole side of the fucking galaxy is dangerous,” Tucker’s wide hand motions nearly knock over his tenth beer. Wash clenched his eyes together in frustration. _Felix again_ …

“Sometimes…” Wash started and faltered. Finally, he looked up to Tucker’s searching eyes and continued. “Sometimes when a person re-experiences a past… event… the brain can compensate for the stress by doing weird stuff. Sometimes you might hallucinate or get confused. And, Tucker, I want you to know I’m not discounting what you saw. But I’m worried that maybe you’re just under a lot of stress from what they had you talk about this morning during that therapy session.”

                Neither spoke for a long time, and Wash felt a horrible pang that he had just said the wrong thing. Finally, Tucker stood up and gathered all the empties into his hands. He paused before leaving to recycle their trash. “I’m not fucking crazy.” Tucker’s words were like acid. Then he was gone, and Wash felt an expectation to let himself out in the meantime.

                Rubbing his forehead with his hand, Wash groaned to himself. Oof, ouch, his heart hurt. He pried himself out of Tucker’s chair and slunk into his own bedroom, locking the door behind him. He heard Tucker come back into the tiny suite and slam his door. Wash guessed they were done talking for a while.

                _I’m not fucking crazy._ Tucker’s words seemed to echo Wash’s dark bedroom. Because hallucinating means crazy. Getting confused by everyday occurrences, mixing up memories, having vivid flashbacks all mean crazy. Which meant Tucker thought Wash was definitely crazy. Wash took a deep breath and let himself slide down the door until he was sitting on the floor. Could he really argue with that? _Mm. Not really_ , he decided.

                Wash felt drunker than he thought he would. Maybe in the morning when everyone’s minds had cleared, things would be better. He knew he worried excessively about… well, most things. But this time, he was worried about Tucker. That look in his eye when he was asked about Epsilon during the battle was plenty to confirm what Wash had suspected this whole time: Tucker was putting on a very convincing front. Wash knew better than most that the front never lasts. He just had to be there when it fell, or else Tucker was going to be in a world of hurt.

Wash didn’t bother getting into his bed before dozing off with the back of his head flush against his bedroom door. He thought for a moment that, maybe, there might have been a reason he didn’t drink anymore.

 

_His hands were shackled to the table in front of him in an unforgiving vice that bruised his wrists with every thrashing. There was plenty of thrashing. The chair fell from under him, tipped over by his own scrambling feet trying desperately to escape the searing pain that cleaved through his skull. A shrill unhinged whine escaped his lips before the chair was forcefully set upright and shoved under him again, jolting him off his feet. His hunched shoulders screamed in protest. His back ached so badly it was hard to breath. Wash trembled and noticed the horrific pain on his implants had subsisted for the time being._

_“It’s incredible what you can do with a handful of nine-volt batteries,” the cop said. He waggled a makeshift taser in Wash’s face, but Wash barely registered it behind his glassy, unfocused eyes. “I gotta tell you, David, I’m actually hourly. I don’t mind if I have to do this for another six hours. I get time-and-a- half if I hit over forty; time and a half-and-a-half over sixty.”_

_Wash managed to tear his bleary eyes up towards the cop’s face. Some UNSC scumbag, looking for rogue freelancers, for the reds and blues, for a whole bunch of other shit he didn’t know. But why should they believe him?_

_The taser hit and plunged him back into agony. The shock made his muscles tremor ferociously and Wash had to be mindful not to bite his tongue as best he could. It didn’t stop the copper taste from welling up in his mouth from a myriad of shallow bites. It was nothing compared to the excruciating pain that struck down his spinal cord in waves._

_“I know you’re gonna crack,” the cop sneered. A loud bang and the chair was gone again, kicked out from underneath him. Wash’s face fell with a crack onto the edge of the table and hot pain clapped over his face. There was blood dropping from his nose. When he could see again, it was Felix who had a fist in Wash’s hair._

_Felix smiled down at Wash. “You know, Tucker and I, we had a thing. Did you know that?” A fit of rage formed in Wash’s chest and he’s not sure why, but he couldn’t bring himself to speak anyways. It hurt so badly to breathe._

_Smoke filled the room as an explosion shook his vision. When Wash came to, he was stumbling through what used to be a city. He could feel the blood soaking through his bodysuit. Fires raged inside the buildings and civilians bled in the streets. “This isn’t mine. This isn’t my memory,” he said to no one. He looked to his right and saw Epsilon standing in the street. He muttered to himself, staring into the sky, all while blood ran down the gutters in the street.  Wash’s heart stopped when he saw Tucker, bruised and bloodstained, piled with a handful of other corpses to the side of the street._

_A goddamn massacre happened here._

_Wash was woozy from blood loss, his head still splitting in pain from the taser. He stumbled towards his friend anyway. “No. No no no no no no—” the stench of decomposing flesh overwhelmed him immediately. He turned as if to vomit, but then his eyes fell upon a hundred hanged children. The city was gone and he was surrounded by hundreds of skeletal apple trees. The orchard around them was misty and frozen, and Tucker stood beside him holding his hand. “Wash, listen, it’s okay.”_

_Wash badly wanted to believe him, until he caught sight of the pistol in Tucker’s other hand. In one swift movement, the gun was in Tucker’s mouth and—Bang!_

_Wash’s eyes flickered open. He was still wiping Tucker’s blood off of his face when he looked down and saw he was restrained to an operating table. Again. The doctors and nurses came in one by one, each sitting in a chair close to him. With surgical precision, they each sliced into Wash’s body, carving out a nice big chunk, and their forks twisted onto him as they began to devour his flesh—_

                Wash’s shout pealed through the room as he jerked awake from his nightmare. Panic seized him as he patted down his body and felt slick, wet, _blood, there’s so much blood_. Until Wash realized it was only sweat and he was on the floor and he could see the time: 3:29 A.M.

                “Oh, _fuck_ ,” Wash wheezed with his hand clutched his chest. “Oh god. Oh fuck,” he repeated until he felt his heart slow. After a few deep breaths, he climbed to his feet and quickly changed into dry, clean clothes. He always felt jumpy after a nightmare and couldn’t possibly sleep or sit in his room at all. _The door… who is guarding the door? The door, the door, thedoorthedoor—_ Next thing he knew, Wash was wrapped up in a blanket to stave off the night’s chill, firearm in hand, sitting on the outside of his bedroom door to watch the front entrance. _This was clearly the safest route of action,_ he told himself. Nothing is more calming than keeping watch on your exits.

                Wash was thankful he hadn’t woken Tucker, who could be heard snoring quietly in his own room. The oncoming hangover made Wash’s eyes wince. Nausea clawed at him while a headache made room for itself in his skull. Wash practiced his deep breathing and stayed focused. He was going to get through this, the whole process, and get redeployed and everything was going to be just fine. He just had to keep it together here long enough to convince them that…

                _“I’m not fucking crazy_ ,” Wash remembered Tucker’s words from earlier, his mouth in a tight line.

                As if on cue, Tucker could be heard groaning in the other room. Wash’s face paled and at first as he thought Tucker might be making “happy noises,” but that sweet illusion was shattered as the door burst open and Tucker was a blur into the bathroom. Wash’s frown deepened as he heard the visceral sounds of Tucker’s vomiting. _Gross._

                _I just have to make it. Through. This._ Wash thought more sternly. A flush, the sounds of frantic teeth-brushing, and Tucker sloppily emerged from the bathroom. For once, Tucker was in sweatpants and a hoodie and not _naked_ , which was a relief. He crossed his arms and passed over his own bedroom door before stopping at Wash’s feet.

                “Scooch,” Tucker said. Wash didn’t understand until Tucker’s freezing foot nudged his leg over. Wash moved over to make room for Tucker, who sat down next to him. “I haven’t had real beer in so long. I feel like shit,” Tucker said flatly.

                “Yeah, that’s the hangover,” Wash responded. His own voice was gravely and exhausted.

                “How you holdin’ up over there?” Tucker asked.

                “I don’t exactly feel… amazing,” Wash croaked.

                “You too, huh?”

                “Mm-hmm.”

                Tucker sat up attentively and pulled some of the blanket away from Washington. “Let me have some of this, it’s freezing in here.” Wash was too tired to argue and relented. When Tucker settled in, his shoulder was pressed firmly against his roommate’s and the blanket warmed them nicely. He heard Wash’s sharp intake of breath at the contact, but Tucker noticed he did not shy away this time. Tucker smiled, leaning his head against Wash’s bedroom door.

                “I feel bad,” Tucker said suddenly.

                Wash sighed deeply again . “Yeah, Tucker, that’s the hangover.”

                “Uh, I meant, I feel bad about what I said to you. About being crazy. I’m sorry, that was out of line,” Tucker said earnestly.

                “it’s fine,” Wash said shortly. He didn’t want to make it a thing. But still, the apology was a nice gesture. At the same time, Wash felt silly that it had ever bothered him in the first place.

                “it’s not fine,” Tucker said quietly, but failed to elaborate. Wash didn’t push it, and soon enough he heard Tucker’s breathing even out. Wash’s head felt heavier, and as Tucker rested his head on Wash’s shoulder, he felt himself being lulled back into sleep.

* * *

                “I’d like to talk about what happened in the Meta Suit, Tucker.”

                By the third meeting that week, Tucker felt like he had dodged this topic twenty-nine times already. His therapist’s office was small, bordering on tiny. Bookshelves lined the room with technical tomes, many of whom were authored by the lady herself. Doctor Garza was an unlaughing, frigid, uptight, uninteresting MILF. She had everything, physically, going for her, but _shit_ was she a pain to talk to.

Tucker ran his fingers through the underside of his locs, trying to keep from rolling his eyes. He adjusted the sleeves of his sweatshirt, sat up a little straighter, and rested an elbow on the back of the couch. “I already told you, I don’t remember anything during the fight. You’re just going to have to ask others.”

The doctor bit her cheek and appeared to be thinking. “Okay. Well, I see that you’ve been having night terrors lately. Do you have any idea what might be causing those?”

Tucker feigned an easy smile. He’d been fooling women into thinking he cared for _years_ , how hard could this therapy thing be? Except he had a horrible tell of clamming up completely as soon as they breached an uncomfortable topic. He did his best to maintain his carefree attitude but this therapist wouldn’t fucking budge on her questions.

“Not really. The whole thing with night terrors apparently is you don’t remember what they’re about. So, that’s a thing,” Tucker said.

“Of course,” Doctor Garza said calmly. “You don’t suppose the two could be related? Not remembering the Meta suit and also not remembering your nightmares?”

Tucker blinked in false surprise. “What? You think so?”

“Why don’t we go back to the beginning, Tucker.” His eyes glanced down at the clipboard and noticed the doctor had her pen ready for some fuckin’ action. “First, the enemy soldiers breached the door to the trophy room. What happened next?”

It’s in his mind before Tucker can flinch away fast enough.

His mouth went dry as the first feathers of a tremor threatened his hands. It was right there in front of him, every detail clear as day. His breath hitched, which elicited some eager body language from the therapist. He realized then that he was in her trap and he wasn’t getting out this time.

“The door breaches,” Tucker said slowly, “and the table we’d shoved in front of the door flies backwards at us. We scatter, and that’s the last thing I remember, before…”

“Before what, Captain Tucker?” the therapist prodded.

“Before there were seven other voices inside my head with me.”

The therapist was frantically jotting down her thoughts at this point. Tucker closed his eyes and focused all his energy on maintaining a firm composure. Watching someone’s enthusiasm over your own mental strife is not the most welcoming feeling.

“The seven voices,” Doctor Garza begins. “Did you know them?”

“No,” Tucker said.

“Were they talking all at once? Or were they taking turns?” she countered.

“They were talking… all at once. To me, and to each other,” Tucker responded.

“What caused you to hear the voices, Tucker? Were there additional AI stored in the suit?” she pressed again.

“No,” Tucker said again. When she didn’t say anything, he felt compelled to continue. “Epsilon—Church—he deleted himself. _Deconstructed_ himself. And the resulting voices were… his fragments.”

“Interesting,” the therapist mused. “Why do you think the Epsilon AI unit did that?”

Tucker couldn’t help but cross his arms and quickly squeeze his eyes shut at the memory, at the feeling, no, the _moment_ he knew when Church was gone. “He did it because he didn’t have the juice to run the Meta suit. The fragments did, though. He didn’t think we would make it out…” he trailed off.

“When you say he deconstructed himself, how did it happen? Were you… conscious of this deconstruction?” the therapist asked.

Tucker tensed further and tried his best to maintain a level voice, but he unwittingly grit his teeth in anger. “Yes,” he bit out. “I was _conscious_ of the sudden screaming in my goddamn head, I was _conscious_ of the suit powering up, I was _conscious_ of the soldiers running us into a dead-end, and I was _conscious_ of Epsilon _fucking_ _dying_. When he deleted his memories, it was like, it’s like when—like when you walk into a room but forget the reason you came in. Like, really all up in the middle of something when all of the sudden, it’s blank.”

“What’s blank, Tucker?”

“Everything. When Epsilon started erasing, I felt… I felt things scrape away that weren’t meant to leave in the process. I felt like my brain was on fire, like I was disappearing, like I’d taken too many uppers because my chest hurt and I felt Epsilon leave this big empty chunk in my head and _it hurt_. But I didn’t have time to think about it, I had to kill a bunch of soldiers before they killed us.” Tucker paused, so caught up in his memory for the moment he didn’t even register the therapist’s pen scribbling a novel onto her clipboard.

Tucker took a deep sigh. “I wasn’t even really there, after that. The voices took over and I was just… along for the ride.” After that, it was like a spell had lifted and Tucker had control over his mouth again. Looking up at the therapist, his gut twisted unpleasantly. It felt so _wrong_ to tell all of this to her. How could he trust his information was confidential? Yet at the same time, how could he pass clearance for discharge if he didn’t cooperate?

The therapist nodded and gave Tucker a very run-of-the-mill spiel about the stages of grief and what some people commonly do to handle losing a loved one. Tucker simply stared at her and let the words wash over him, not absorbing a single one except for at the end when she asked “Why don’t you try some of those techniques the next time you have a night-terror? We can talk about your progress then after the weekend.”

“Yeah, I’ll do that,” Tucker heard himself say.

“Oop—and that’s time. I’ll let you get on with your day now, dear. See you in a few,” the therapist ushered him out promptly to the elevator. 

The walk home was like a daydream. Tucker found himself having to constantly backtrack after passing this or that street, his mind not really there at the task at hand. The psychiatric office was in the military sector, so the walk home was brief—maybe twenty minutes if he was walking leisurely. Somehow, the time slipped from his awareness as he found himself lost in the totally wrong direction. Directions weren’t making sense for some reason. Tucker pulled out his data pad to check his location near a walkway and caught the eye of a stranger sitting on a nearby bench.

  But it wasn’t a stranger. It was fucking _Felix_. Tucker’s heart stopped in the horrifying realization that he wasn’t hallucinating. Felix seemed to be lounging openly with a to-go coffee in his left hand, data pad in the other. His unsmiling brown eyes shot up to catch Tucker’s. After a moment of staring, a gloved hand motioned for Tucker to come closer. Tucker’s heart pounded in his ears, but for some reason he complied. He walked down the hall until he was within mere feet of the bench and stared disbelieving at Felix.

                “Why the _fuck_ aren’t you dead?” Tucker’s voice sounded higher than he meant it to.

                “Oh, I was. For like, eight minutes. What’s the matter Tucker? You sound like you’re not sure if I’m real or not,” Felix said with a shitty grin on his face.

                Tucker felt his face twist in anger. “What about the sword, asshole? We all saw Locus activate it.”

                Felix scoffed. “It’s fucking alien technology, it’s not _god_.” When Tucker didn’t say anything right away, Felix continued. “Anyway, don’t worry about me. I’m not planning on killing you or anything—at least for now. Why don’t you sit down? You look stressed.”

                Tucker absolutely did not want to sit down. “What’s your game? What are you doing here?”

                Felix sipped his coffee and tucked his data pad into his coat pocket. “What, a guy can’t chill on a bench?”

                “In a military compound with security six ways from Sunday?” Tucker sneered. “Who the fuck are you working for now?”

                “Oh, I don’t think that’s important right now. But you should know, I can go anywhere on this ship that I want,” Felix said nonchalantly. His eyes narrowed dangerously. “ _Anywhere. I. Want.”_

                Tucker didn’t realize it, but his fists were clenched and shaking. He would have done anything to beat the ever-loving daylights out of this piece of shit, but there was no way causing a scene here could end in his favor. “If you bother any single one of my friends…” Tucker started in a low voice.

                “Such sharp words,” Felix interrupted. “For a fucking loser.” Tucker glared daggers. “Maybe you should get your _bullshit PTSD_ under wraps before you start picking fights out of your league.”

The words gut Tucker like a fish. All thoughts were gone, silenced by an over-exposed feeling of crushing self-awareness. Felix languidly got to his feet and ran a hand through his fuckboy haircut. “I’ll see you around, Tucker. Try and get some sleep.” Felix winked and fell in line with a group of young cadets walking towards the checkpoint to the civilian sector.

Tucker was paralyzed to the spot, not even totally certain if he was awake or dreaming. Lord knows, he’d had plenty of nightmares about that dickbag. But something about this was too real, too vivid, and yet too weird to be true. Tucker quickly determined the direction towards his living quarters and walked back with haste to the tiny suite he shared with Washington.

When Tucker shut the door, he locked it without thinking. Washington’s door was closed and the lights were off; he was elsewhere. That guy had a unique talent of finding useless tasks to keep himself occupied. Tucker did not share that talent. With pointed urgency, Tucker found himself in his bedroom. His heart hurt in his chest as his pulse raged in his ears. He couldn’t stop the cycling thoughts. Was Felix really alive? Or was this just a very convincing hallucination?

Tucker thought back immediately to the therapy session, and he realized it wasn’t his pulse that was banging on his eardrums. It was _them_. Seven other voices bickering with each other over Felix. _We should find him. We should kill him. We should run. We should hide._ His heart was beating so hard and his stomach twisted into a pretzel. Darkness eked into the corners of his vision and his hands gripped the sides of his desk.  Tucker’s brain was on fire, and the voices were shouting so loudly he couldn’t get a word in edgewise.

He felt a _crack_ as his body went limp; he felt Epsilon shatter into the fragments and he was so hot, so hot he was sweating. His brain was going to explode. There was too much information to process. There’s a soldier behind him with a machete and two on his side with automatic rifles. If he rolls forward quickly enough he can avoid that grenade coming towards him and use his sword to take out the guy operating the jeep turret—and then there was that _gaping hole_ his in head where Epsilon used to be. It was hot and wet.

Wait, what was hot and wet?

Tucker blinked in rapid succession and came back to reality. He was on the carpet floor of his room and something hot and wet was on his face. He touched a hand to his forehead and pulled away to check.

 _Yep. Blood._ He looked up and saw the edge of the desk where his face made bruising contact on his way down.

Tucker’s heart stuttered and he swallowed. He needed a pill. He frantically found his way to his feet and began rifling through the carefully constructed chaos. Where had he put them last? His desk? The closet? His bed? His duffle? He pawed violently through his belongings, but they were nowhere to be found.

                “WHERE THE FUCK?” Tucker shouted into his empty suite as panic seized him. In a fit of rage, he swept the piles of books, notepads, and personal items from his desk. A jar of coconut oil went flying against the door with loud _thunk_. Tucker took a shaky breath and tried desperately to scan his room for the familiar brown baggy. At last, he saw it—crumpled up in the corner next to his bed.

 _Fuck_ , he sighed in relief. Snatching it up, his trembling hands searched through the med packs until he found the anti-anxieties. His jaw set into a grim frown. _Only two left_.

                Carefully, he emptied a single pill into his hand and tossed it in his mouth, dry-swallowing. He looked closely at the final pill before slipping it back into its paper bag. Tucker stuffed the package in his underwear drawer right away so he wouldn’t lose it again. Slouching onto the edge of his bed, the soldier buried his head in his hands and found himself calming down.

                _Okay, on the upswing now_ , he thought to himself. That is, until, he heard a knock on his door. Horrified, Tucker’s heart dropped into the pit of his stomach.

                “Uh. Yeah?” he called out.

                The door opened, not waiting for an invitation. Tucker bristled.   “Everything okay in here?” It was Wash. His blonde hair stuck up at odd angles, his shirt wrinkled from sleep, and a dazed look in his eye that quickly blinked away when he saw Tucker’s deer-in-headlights expression.

                “Uh. Yeah.” Tucker didn’t elaborate. He didn’t blink or breath or move. _Please,_ he thought. Whether it was _please leave_ or _please help_ , Tucker couldn’t be sure. Both options were terrible. He was fucked.

                Wash looked carefully at the mess of a room. The remnants of Tucker’s desk all over the floor, bedding thrown every which way, the clothes hamper tipped over. Wash bit his lip in careful thought, which was something Tucker always saw him do when he was trying to say something difficult.

                “Don’t take this the wrong way, Tucker, but this doesn’t look… okay,” Wash said.

                “I didn’t think you were here,” Tucker said quickly.

                “Tucker, what happened?” Wash wasn’t letting Tucker distract him. Tucker’s gut twisted again and he felt some kind of existential flinch at the core of his being.

                “I just—,” Tucker paused. “It’s nothing. I just had a… weird day.” Another pause. Tucker was staring at his hands, shoulders stiff. His head snapped back up to look at Washington. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you up. I didn’t know you were sleeping.”

                 Wash took a slow breath and seemed to be weighing his options before he stepped over the clutter on the floor to sit next to Tucker on his bed. Tucker looked at him with wide, nervous eyes.

                “Are we friends enough that I can tell you what you need to hear, even if it sucks?” Wash asked.

                “Well, you’ve never seemed to have an issue with that in the past,” Tucker said. Wash rolled his eyes.

                “Tucker, this thing with the- the screening process for discharge or whatever, with the psychologists—it’s _horrible_. Sometimes, it’s like they mean to help but… they don’t… really know… what they’re doing,” Wash said awkwardly. “I’ve definitely had the experience where, in some attempt to help me _process_ things, I get… re-traumatized. Or, I don’t know, things that had previously settled to the bottom get stirred up again.”

Tucker didn’t turn to face Wash, who was sitting so closely now that Tucker could lean over and rest his head on his shoulder if he wanted. Tucker’s mind flashed back to the night they spent in the hallway together. He wanted that now, more than anything. He wanted to tell him about the Meta suit and the voices and that flaming dumpster of a person, Felix. He couldn’t possibly, though. Whenever Wash was up late at night, it was because he had his own shit to deal with. Tucker would be selfish to ask Wash to carry additional burdens. The man had enough on his own. He had suffered enough. He didn’t need Tucker’s pain, too.

Tucker couldn’t say anything. He was bursting with things he wanted to tell the blonde, but he couldn’t utter a single word of them.

 Wash’s hand twitched. He reached towards Tucker, only a few inches before he paused. After another second, he moved again with more resolve and gently settled his hand over Tucker’s fingers. _That_ got Tucker to look at him.

“Tucker,” Wash said in that low, protective tone.

Wash would get like that: so dramatic, especially when they worked together on Chorus during the civil war. The tone was comforting and always inspired trust from the deepest recesses of Tucker’s chest. Wash’s knowledge, skill, and quick thinking had saved Tucker and the others more times than they could count. If Wash said he would protect you, you could count on him. Tucker clung to that, sometimes, in the heat of war.

                Tucker realized he was so busy thinking about life on Chorus, he hadn’t heard what Wash had said. “Sorry, what did you just say?”

                Wash’s eyes zeroed in on Tucker’s face. “I said, if you feel like the therapy isn’t helping, _you need to lie to them, Tucker_.”

                Tucker’s questioning eyes made Wash shift uncomfortably. “Don’t tell anyone I told you that,” he added.

                Tucker nodded and licked his lips before speaking again. “You lie to yours?” he asked.

                Wash eyes shifted away momentarily. “Yeah. I do.” The silence the followed his admission was heavy, but comfortable. Like a thick blanket on a cold, rainy day. Wash was like that.

                “…What do you say?” Tucker’s voice was quiet. It was a personal question, he knew that, but he couldn’t help himself.

 Washington pressed his lips together in thought and lightly squeezed Tucker’s hand. “I tell them that… I feel better.” His voice was heavy and tired. “I tell them that their advice helps, that the plan is working, that the meds are great, that I take them regularly.” Tucker looked at him and Wash could feel the pity, the fear, the realization in Tucker’s eyes. “I tell them I don’t ever have suicidal thoughts. I tell them I have plans for after the war. I tell them I have close relationships with other people… you know, healthy-people things.”

Tucker couldn’t help but stare at Washington, who glanced up to him in a careful show of vulnerability. Tucker wanted to save Wash right then and there—but how? He was going to have to tell the same lies. Was that going to be his whole future? Was Tucker doomed to a life of mental instability and daily panic? Was that the life _Wash was already living?_ The thought made Tucker grip Wash’s hand instinctively.

                “You know you’re bleeding, yeah?” Wash asked suddenly. Tucker snapped his hand from under Wash’s fingertips and touched his forehead again—right, he’d already forgotten.

                “Yeah, I knew that.” Tucker didn’t sound confident in his answer.

                A pause followed. “You can talk to me if you need to,” Wash said softly before standing up to leave. “The first aid kit is in the bathroom,” he said. At the invitation to talk, Tucker couldn’t control himself anymore.

                “Wash,” Tucker blurted out with a hint of panic back in his voice. Wash paused at the door. “I saw him again. I saw Felix. He’s here.”

                Washington’s shoulders sagged with a patient sigh. “Tucker, Felix died on Chorus. We know he’s dead because Locus has the sword.” He hesitated, but then he asked, “Do you remember?”

                “Of course I remember,” Tucker snapped. “I asked him the same thing. He said he was dead _for a few minutes_. I don’t understand it all, but please, Wash, you have to believe me. There’s _no way_ I imagined the conversation I had today.”

                Wash gave Tucker a sympathetic look and Tucker felt his heart crumple like a wilted flower. “I don’t know whether to believe you,” he said honestly.

                “I—I know,” Tucker said with a hint of exhaustion. He stood up then and brushed pass Washington to clean up the cut on his forehead in the bathroom.

                “If it makes you feel better, I know what that’s like. To not be able to tell, you know,” Wash said quietly, pivoting to look at Tucker as he dabbed his forehead with rubbing alcohol. Wash pressed his forearm on Tucker’s door frame and rested his temple against his hand. “I don’t know the details, but it’s pretty obvious something serious is going on with you.”

                Tucker bit back a snappy response but inadvertently shot a dirty look at Wash. After placing a strip of bandage tape over the cut, Tucker stood in front of Wash to indicate he was going back to his bedroom. When Wash didn’t move, Tucker groaned. “Come on, man. I’m fucking tired. Just let me through.”

                “You’re _seriously_ not gonna talk to me?” Wash asked him. Something squeezed in Tucker’s chest. _I just did_ , Tucker thought. _But you’re not listening right now._

                “Maybe later. I just need to take a minute,” Tucker said. “Okay?”

                With a deep breath, Wash stood aside and let Tucker pass. “Yeah, okay.” Tucker closed the door in his face and Wash could hear him tidying his room on the other side. Wash let Tucker have his space for now. In the meantime, he needed to check in with Carolina. She sent him a text hours ago that she had news.

               

                      

               

 

 


End file.
